You ever notice, Mister Sunshine, how every time you walk into a room you act like you’re doing everybody a favour? Like the world’s a little brighter just because you decided to share that painted-on grin? You call it positivity. Energy. Light. I call it a symptom. A warning sign. Something swelling under the skin and pretending it’s harmless until it finally bursts and everyone realises they should’ve called for help a long time ago.

And that’s why this Ambulance Match is perfect. Because you’re not stepping into a fight, Sunshine – you’re stepping into an examination. A diagnosis. A full, brutal course of treatment delivered by the only man in Olympus who isn’t afraid to say what the rest of them whisper: that you’re not a beacon, you’re an infection. A spreading, buzzing sickness dressed up in yellow smiles and hollow giggles.

You thrive on denial. On pretending that everything’s fine. On acting like pain doesn’t exist if you just laugh loud enough. But that’s the thing about sickness – it doesn’t go away because you ignore it. Sooner or later somebody has to look at it, identify it, and cut it out before it spreads any further. And that somebody is me.

When those ambulance doors open at ringside, you’ll call it a threat. I’ll call it preparation. Because I’m not waiting for the fight to end before we get you loaded in and carted out. I’m preparing the stretcher early. I’m reviewing the symptoms. I’m getting ready to perform the one procedure you’ve spent your whole career pretending you don’t need: a hard dose of reality delivered with precision and intent.

You want the world to believe you’re untouchable. That your sunshine burns too bright to be dimmed. But I know better. I see the cracks in the glow. The fractures behind that smile. And when I get you alone in that ring, away from all the distractions, away from the jokes and the glitter and the blinding yellow haze, I’m going to expose everything you’ve been hiding behind. Every smile that’s really a shield. Every laugh that’s really a tremor. Every bright little lie that keeps you from admitting you’re scared of the dark.

You should be.

Because darkness is honesty. Darkness is where the truth lives. And when you’re strapped to that stretcher, when the sirens start screaming for you instead of with you, when the doors slam shut and you realise you can’t laugh your way out of what’s coming, that’s when you’ll finally understand why this is happening. You’ll understand that this isn’t cruelty. It’s not cruelty to cut out what’s rotting. It’s not cruelty to stop a disease from spreading.

This is treatment.

And you, Mister Sunshine, are long overdue.

So bring your smile. Bring your sparkle. Bring every last ray of that false, flickering light you keep convincing yourself is real. I’ll bring the cure. I’ll bring the truth. And by the time that ambulance pulls away, you won’t be the man who brought sunshine to the world – you’ll be the man who finally ran out of it.

And I’ll be the one who delivered the final dose.