There was a man I served with who tried to redeem himself.

Not because he was good. Not because he deserved it.

But because he couldn’t live with what he’d done.

He carried every mistake like a chain, and said he was going to make things right.

But every night when he tried to sleep, the chain rattled. And every morning when he woke up, it was still around his neck.

One night, he came to me shaking. Said he wanted to confess, that if he could just speak it out loud, maybe the weight would lift.

So he talked.

He unloaded every sin, every failure, every life he ruined. Poured out every nightmare he’d ever caused.

And when he finished, I waited for the relief to hit him. For the chain to fall. For the redemption he thought he’d earned.

But nothing changed.

He was still the man who did those things. Just louder about it.

Redemption didn’t come. Because redemption doesn’t come from speaking.

It comes from suffering. It comes from breaking. It comes from being forced to face the truth you’ve been running from.

Doom, you’re clawing your way toward redemption like it’s something you can earn with enough apologies and championship gold.

You talk about being changed. Being saved.

But you don’t want to be saved. You want to be forgiven.

By the crowd.

By Arcadia.

By your former friends.

And most of all; by yourself.

That’s why you cling to that belt like it’s a lifeline. Like it tells you you’re not the monster you were.

But that title isn’t absolution. It’s camouflage. A trophy that hides the chain around your neck.

But I ain’t here for the strap. I’m here for the truth.

And truth only comes from pain.

You want redemption? Then I’m going to drag it out of you. Because there’s no substitute for the moment a man screams for it to stop.

And I want that moment from you, Doom.

Because Arcadia needs to hear it.

Because you need to hear it.

I’m going to twist, grind, and wrench that chain around your neck until you feel every sin you ever committed.

You want to be better? Redeemed? Forgiven?

Then you’re going to have to earn it the only way redemption ever comes:

Through suffering. Through pain. Through the moment where there’s nothing left in your lungs but the truth.

And when I drag you down, when I lock you in and feel your body shake against mine, when the air leaves your chest and the realization hits you that there’s no escape left…

That’s when redemption will finally come.

Not because you asked for it. But because I’ll force it out of you.

The hard way. The honest way.

Stubbins, you’ve been chasing forgiveness, but in my world, forgiveness only sounds like one thing:

The rattle of the chain tightening, the breath leaving your body, and the moment you finally understand what that soldier never did:

Redemption doesn’t lift the chain. It breaks the man wearing it.

And I’m the one who breaks you.