Tombstone. Nero. Jasper Redgrave.

Three men.

Three mouths.

Three empty bowls.

That’s what you are.

Hollow.

You can’t stand to see another hold something you lost, or never earned, or never understood…

So you reach out and steal.

You keep taking. And still, you’re never full.

Tombstone.

You wore the chains once. Heavy, cursed, sacred. You never wanted them.

But now that Gravedigger wears them with conviction—you want them back. Now that someone else bears your burden with meaning, you suddenly remember how much it mattered.

But it’s not redemption you’re after. It’s not calling. It’s not grief.

It’s envy.

You see a mirror in motion, and it haunts you. Because he wears what you couldn’t hold, and he’s made it heavier than you ever could.

You don’t want justice. You want what he has. You want to be seen again. But all anyone sees when they look at you now is a man who lost everything.

And still… you’re hungry.

Nero.

You don’t even try to hide your theft. You took Graves’ money, stole it from the coffers like a child swiping bread from the altar.

You think that makes you clever. But all it makes you is empty.

Money doesn’t fill the hole in your chest, Nero.

It just delays the echo.

To Graves, that money was faith in physical form.

And you reduced it to a number in your hand. You laugh, you vanish, you act untouchable.

But when the illusion fades, you’re still just a boy with a stolen flame burning your fingers on a fire you’ll never control.

You didn’t wound the preacher. You just proved him right.

About the decay. About the rot.

About how the wicked always take what they didn’t earn.

You could spend it all.

And still be starving.

Jasper Redgrave.

You want everything.

Not because you need it. But because he has it.

Jackson Cade.

He bleeds for that title, clawed through hell to hold it.

And that’s exactly why you want to rip it from his fingers.

Because deep down, you know… you will never build what he built. You will never inspire what he inspires.

So you steal. You manipulate. You chip away, hoping that if you tear enough pieces off of him, you might be able to wear his skin.

But skin doesn’t make the man.

And ending him won’t silence the screaming inside you.

Because it’s still just another empty bowl.

But me?

I am the bowl that cracked but refused to break.

I have nothing—no gold, no crown, no adoration. But I’ve felt what it means to be emptied out…

To be hollowed, gutted, scorched…

And still stand.

You steal what you don’t deserve. You crave what others earned. You take… and take… and still feel nothing.

But me?

I am what’s left when the bowl stays empty and the man still rises. I am the hunger that feeds itself.

And when I shatter your hands, your pride, your names… You’ll know what it means to be truly hollow.

And I’ll still be standing, because I never needed what you stole.

I only needed what you couldn’t carry.