Ah, Captain Arcadia. The great shining hero. The saviour in spandex. The paragon of virtue wrapped in red, white, and lies. They call you a beacon. They chant your name as though it carries weight. They salute you as though you earned it. But all I see when I look at you is another act.

Because let’s be honest, Captain. Heroics are just theatre, aren’t they? You march into the ring with your chest puffed out, voice booming, promising protection and justice and truth. You pose for the flashbulbs, shake hands with the children, smile for the crowd. You strut and you preen as though you are above the rest of us. But strip it all away and what’s left? A man in a mask, praying the people never realise how much of his story is staged.

I grew up surrounded by performers. Jugglers, strongmen, freaks, and fire-breathers – all selling the crowd a vision, a dream, an illusion. I learned early what it meant to sell a lie and make it look like truth. I learned that if you say it loud enough, and smile wide enough, the crowd will believe.

But there’s a difference between you and me, Captain. I admit it. I am honest about what I am. I am the ringmaster. I give the people spectacle. I twist horror into theatre, vengeance into applause. They gasp because they know it’s real. I never hide that. You, though? You sell yourself as something pure. You paint over the cracks. You want them to believe you’re more than a man. You want them to believe you’re a hero.

But you’re not. You’re just another act under the big top.

Do you know why I hate men like you, Captain? Because when those freaks murdered my parents, there wasn’t a hero to save them. There wasn’t a Captain Arcadia swooping down from the heavens to protect the innocent. No – there was only blood, and horror, and silence. And I was left with the truth: that heroes don’t exist. Only performers do.

So I took up the mantle of my own show. I made the world my circus. I hunted the freaks, their kin, every last one, and I didn’t do it in secret. I did it for the crowd to see.

That’s why you and I are different, Captain. You think that draping yourself in flags and titles makes you something more. But you are a fraud. A painted mask. A tired routine. And when we step into that ring, I’ll rip the curtain down. I’ll show the people that your heroics are hollow, that your speeches are stale, that your cape is nothing more than fabric soaked in sweat and fear.

Captain Arcadia, when this match is over, the people won’t remember your salute or your slogans. They’ll remember the spectacle I made of you. They’ll remember the blood, the horror, the screams echoing in their ears.

They’ll remember Klaus Way – the only man honest enough to admit he’s an act… and dangerous enough to make it real.