Secrecy. That’s your game, isn’t it, Nero? Whispering in the shadows, bending the wires, pulling the strings no one’s meant to see. You slip through firewalls and hide in static, convincing yourself your rebellion is changing the world. But secrecy never inspires anyone. Whispers don’t raise the dead. Ghost signals don’t stir a crowd to their feet.

Spectacle does.

I learned that as a child beneath the big top, as I watched men, women, freaks, and misfits stand under the lights, baring themselves to the gasping masses. Every movement, every sound, every illusion was designed to make the people feel. To shock. To horrify. To amaze. That’s power, Nero. Not hidden codes. Not secret channels. Power is the gasp of a crowd, the scream of fear, the applause of surrender.

And when those same freaks tore my family apart, I didn’t hide in the dark. I didn’t crawl into shadows to plot. I dragged my vengeance into the light. I hunted them, their descendants, every last one of them. I made their end a show. Because pain locked away in secrecy is wasted. Pain made into spectacle is eternal.

And that’s what you don’t understand. You can hack feeds, scramble signals, flood the air with static. You can keep working from behind the curtain, pretending the shadows give you strength. But the people you’re trying to reach? They don’t gather around static. They don’t cheer for shadows. They don’t chant the name of a man they cannot see.

They cheer for me. Because I give them a spectacle.

You’re haunted by guilt, Nero. You traded your badge for a mask, the system for subterfuge, hoping you could balance the scales. You fight for redemption, but redemption in silence is nothing. Redemption hidden is regret. You think your secrecy makes you untouchable, that working in the dark keeps you safe. But secrecy is the coward’s stage.

I stand in the open. I step into the ring, under the spotlight, and I dare the world to look at me. I want them to see every scar, every ounce of blood on my hands. Because I am not ashamed. I am not hiding. I was born for spectacle.

So when we meet, Nero, it won’t be in the safety of your shadows. It won’t be behind static or hidden in lines of code. It will be under the lights, in front of everyone, where every move echoes, every scream carries, and every failure is permanent.

You’ll try to outthink me. You’ll try to script the match in your head like a program, every counter accounted for, every strike pre-written. But the moment the curtain rises, the moment the crowd roars, the script burns. And I will thrive in that fire, while you freeze in the glare of an audience you can’t control.

Spectacle devours secrecy, Nero. It always has. And when the show is over, when the curtain falls, the people will not remember the whisper of a man hiding in the shadows. They will remember the ringmaster who stood in the light and made destruction into theatre.

They will remember Klaus Way.