Only a Man

TombstonePromo, Tombstone

You know what happens when a Christian dies?

I do.

I’ve ferried more of them across the river than you could count in a lifetime. Preachers. Zealots. Sinners wrapped in Sunday suits. Martyrs without the war. And they all say the same three things when the cold takes them—when the blood runs cold and the lungs fill for the last time.

First: “Why has God forsaken me before my time?”

Second: “But I’ve been a good Christian all my life.”

And third, always third, with fear behind their eyes: “Where are we going?”

They think belief buys them something. A longer thread of fate. A gentler end. A golden light waiting on the horizon. But let me tell you what I’ve seen from the helm of the ferry—your God does not save you.

He doesn’t hold your hand. He doesn’t shield your soul and when your time comes—when it really comes—He doesn’t even answer.

Because belief isn’t enough. Not when you’ve used His name to justify your violence, to prop up your pride, to mask your sins in scripture and salt.

I’ve watched Christian men burn. Watched crosses melt to slag in their hands. Watched “God’s chosen” scream when they realized their path led down, not up.

And now comes Ezekiel Graves. The world champion. The holy man with a crown of gold. The self-appointed mouthpiece of the divine. You stand atop Olympus, holding a belt like it’s a gospel, preaching sermons between beatings like you’re baptizing the broken.

But Ezekiel… you’re still just a man.

And men—they believe in God. They kill in His name. They justify. They rationalize. They sin—and then they die.

And when they die?

I ferry them.

I don’t pray. I don’t kneel. I don’t ask for forgiveness or redemption. I don’t believe because belief changes nothing about what comes next. Not the journey. Not the destination. Not the fire at the end of the tunnel.

You say you’re chosen.

I say you’re next.

That title you carry, the belt with the gold plates and legacy etched into its leather—it’s not protection. It’s weight. And when I drag you from Olympus down into the dirt, into the dark, into my domain, that weight will pull you faster than any sin ever could.

You preach about the light. I operate in the dark. You kneel at the altar. I stand at the gates.

And here’s the difference between us, Ezekiel…

You live. You will die. And I?

I’m already dead. I walk without fear, without end, without soul.

I am the one who knocks at the moment of death. I am the one who asks no questions. I do not judge. I do not forgive. I only ferry.

And when your time comes—and make no mistake, it is coming—you’ll ask those same three questions, just like all the rest.

“Why has God forsaken me?”

“Haven’t I been good?”

“Where are we going?”

And just like always…I won’t answer.

I’ll simply turn the boat.

And row.

“Better Out Than In”

Felix FoleyFelix Foley, Promo

Once upon a time, I had a problem.

Gas.

Not the kind you pump into a generator. Not the kind that powers Arcadia’s systems. No, I mean the kind that bloats you up, that stretches your belly until you feel like you’re gonna pop. The kind that turns walking into waddling, breathing into battling, and thinking into panicking.

It started small, as it always does. A little discomfort here, a little pressure there. But it builds. Slowly. Silently. And before you know it, you can’t move without feeling like you’re going to burst. You try to pretend it’s nothing. You walk it off. You smile through it. You pretend everything’s normal. But it’s not.

That gas becomes everything.

And Doom—he was that gas.

He filled me up with hope. With loyalty. With love. With dreams of family and brotherhood. He made me feel bigger, stronger—like I mattered. But it was all pressure. Fake weight. An artificial bloat from a man I thought was my brother. And Nox? Nox was the stench that followed. The toxin that clung to me after it all went rotten. The poison that turned brotherhood into betrayal.

You know what happens when you ignore gas for too long? It finds its own way out. And one day, I let it go. The longest, most cathartic release I’ve ever had. Doom turned on me. Nox stood beside him. And just like that—I exploded.

And I felt better.

Because it’s always better out than in.

That’s what I learned.

You see, I’ve already been inside a gas chamber. Not the metal one we’ll step into at Warzone, but the emotional kind. A pressurized hell of loyalty, love, and lies. A chamber built by friendship, sealed by betrayal, and filled with the poisonous aftermath of hearts turned cold.

So when they say Gas Chamber Match, I don’t flinch. I don’t gag. I don’t panic. Because I’ve already lived it. I’ve already suffered through the pain of being bloated with someone else’s lies. I’ve already choked on the fumes of promises broken and dreams corrupted.

The difference now?

I’m in control of the release.

You want to trap me in a chamber, Nox? You want to pump it full of whatever noxious vapors you’ve cooked up in that venomous little mind of yours? Go right ahead. Pump it in. Lock the door. Watch the pressure rise. Just know this…

You’re not sealing me in there.

You’re sealing yourself in with me.

And I don’t hold it in anymore.

This isn’t going to be a match. It’s going to be a purge. Of everything I’ve held back. Of every word I never said. Every hit I didn’t throw. Every breath I gave to people who didn’t deserve it.

Doom gave me the pressure.

You’ll get the release.

Because the truth is, Nox, it’s not about who gets the air first. It’s about who’s already learned to breathe without it. And I’ve been holding mine for far too long. At Warzone, the release won’t just be physical. It’ll be personal. Emotional. Final.

I’ve been bloated. I’ve been poisoned. I’ve been betrayed.

And now?

It’s better out than in.

The Wages of Sin

Reverend Ezekiel GravesEzekiel Graves, Promo

Romans 6:23

“Romans six… twenty-three. For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord.

You ferried me once, Tombstone.

Dragged my limp body across consecrated dirt.

Shoveled the grave with your bare hands.

Buried me in silence, as if your role gave you dominion over mine.

As if a mortician could write scripture.

But I did not die.

I rose.

Because you are not Death.

You are not Charon.

You are a worker of the pit pretending to own the afterlife—

a man who’s spent so long in service, he’s mistaken obedience for identity.

And I?

I am not bound to the earth.

I speak for Heaven.

You wander this world clutching to a purpose that was never yours.

Mortis carved you from clay and called it servitude.

Now you drift between shadows, thinking rebellion makes you real.

But rebellion without righteousness is rot.

You are still the Ferryman.

Still tethered to a task.

Still rowing in circles, moving corpses from one side to the next hoping that if you ferry enough souls, someone might finally recognize yours.

But I have seen your soul, Tombstone.

And it is empty.

You buried me once and the crowd cheered like I was gone.

But I was only planted.

The Harbinger does not die in the dirt.

He takes root.

And now, like the fig tree cursed by Christ,

you shall wither under the weight of a judgment you do not understand.

You fight to reclaim a stolen role.

I fight because mine is divine.

You ferry the dead.

I declare their sentence.

You want to be something more?

Then you should have faced something less.

But instead, you stepped into the cage with the trumpet of wrath.

You placed your name beside mine on holy parchment,

and the Lord does not look kindly on hubris.

You think I forgot what you did?

The dirt.

The grave.

The silence that followed?

No.

I remember every second.

But this time, you don’t get to bury me.

I bury you.

I dig the hole.

I say the prayer.

And I close the book.

You are not feared.

You are not known.

You are a man pretending to be death—

and I am the man who reminds you what death really looks like.

You’ve spent your life rowing the damned toward judgment.

Now it’s your turn to cross.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

The wages of sin is death.

And I am the collector.

Amen.”

Dragons and Dirt

DrewittDrewitt, Promo

They say the girl became a dragon.

They whisper it in alleyways and over busted radios like it’s a prophecy. Like some kind of Arcadian poetry. That the wolf is gone, and something grander rose in its place. Scales. Smoke. Majesty. As if your pain was just a prelude to your ascension.

And I get it, Ayame. That story sounds better than the truth.

Because I’ve been here, in the muck and the marrow of Arcadia. I’ve seen what this place does to people. It breaks them down, chews them up and leaves them hollow. So when someone crawls out of the wreckage claiming to be more than human, people really want to believe it. They need to.

But dragons don’t grow here. Not in this soil. Not in this rusted-out ruin that we call home.

What we grow here is survivors. Fighters. Liars. Monsters. Believe me I’ve met ‘em all. I’ve walked through their graves and lived to map the route.

What we don’t grow here is legends. Arcadia doesn’t nurture myth, it starves it. It builds you up just high enough to watch the fall, and when the cheering stops, you’re left with nothing but your own echo. I’ve watched icons crumble under the weight of their own story. I’ve seen the shine fade, the masks crack, and the names fade into the dirt they swore they’d never touch. That’s what this place does – it reminds you who you really are, no matter how loud you roar.

You call yourself a dragon now, Ayame. But I remember the wolf.

I remember the girl who fought tooth and nail just to stay on her feet. Who didn’t need wings or a bloodline to be dangerous. She fought for survival, not spectacle. And maybe she was snarling and wild, but there was honesty in that fury.

This new form of yours, there’s a grace to it, sure. But it’s a costume all the same. And I’ve seen what happens when people start believing their own myth.

They forget the dirt. They forget the hunger. They forget what it means to bleed in the silence and not have the crowd roar in response.

And I haven’t forgotten. Not a damn second of it.

I don’t have fire in my chest or prophecy in my bones. I’ve got scars. I’ve got dust. I’ve got a spine that’s been broken and reset more times than you can count. I wasn’t chosen. I wasn’t crowned.

I endured.

So when you look down at me from whatever pedestal you’ve propped yourself on, remember this: the fall always comes. And when it does, you won’t be facing a hero or a villain.

You’ll be facing a man who’s crawled through worse than you can dream of and kept walking.

Because I don’t need to be feared. I don’t need to be worshipped.

I just need to outlast you.

See you in the ring, dragon.

Your story ends in the dirt, Ayame – and I’m the one holding the pen.

Hate

Jasper RedgraveJasper Redgrave, Promo

“Oh, Little Eagle, how naive you are..”

[The Artist finally speaks. His words drip with venom.]

“Love is nothing but weakness.”

“That feeling inside of you that burns so deep is hate. But it is a feeling that is shared between you and I.”

“I hate you, Jackson.”

“I hate everything that you stand for. I hate everything that you’ve ever accomplished. I hate everything about you..”

“But that’s what makes us just like Gemini and Muerte.”

“Without me, you’re nothing.”

[The Killer King flashes a twisted smile.]

“Without me, you have nothing.”

“There’s nothing left to fight for. There’s no burning desire to see me brought to justice to keep your fire fueled.”

“Without Jasper Redgrave, Jackson Cade fades away.”

[He pauses, letting Jackson marinade in those words.]

“The thought of me never leaves your mind. I could be lurking around any corner.. ready to strike.”

“Ready to take another loved one from you.”

“And that’s what keeps you at the top of your game, Little Eagle.”

“It is the hatred that I forged that keeps you flying high.”

“You need me just as much as Gemini needs Muerte..”

[Redgrave paces back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back.]

“You’ve made a good point though, Little Eagle.”

“Gemini is just as naive as you.”

“That burning in her chest isn’t adoration. She doesn’t love Muerte.”

“In fact, she hates him. She hates who he is. She hates what he has done in the past. She hates the lies that he’s built his empire on.”

[Jasper steps forward and taps on the glass that separates him from Jackson.]

“But just like you, she’s ignorant to the differences between love and hate.”

“As such, she leans on him. She believes in him. She confides in his ability.”

“That, my dear Eagle, is where our differences lie.”

“They will forever depend on each other. They will stand as a cohesive unit.”

“But you and I?”

[Jasper slaps an open palm against the glass to startle Jackson.]

[Redgrave smiles.]

“Our egos will work to devour one another.”

“We will use our hate for one another to devour anything that attempts to stand in our way.”

[He smirks.]

“Just like we always have.”

[Jasper pivots on his heels and steps away from the glass, his back to Jackson.]

“We’ve always fought tooth and nail against one another. We’ve always destroyed everything in our path to get to each other. We have and will always strive to ‘one up’ the other.”

“Neither of us will be willing to concede..”

[Jasper turns back to Jackson as he leans against the wall furthest from the glass that separates them.]

“Because when it comes down to it, my Little Eagle..”

“Hate will always be a stronger emotion than love.”

“After Warzone, you and I will be the new Tag Team Champions..”

[Jasper laughs out loud.]

“And I bet you fuckin’ hate that.”

[Jackson’s eyes shoot daggers in Redgrave’s direction as he laughs.]

[Annoyed, Cade pivots on his heels and heads for the door.]

Sugar

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

There’s a kind of art that dazzles before it dies.

Sugar sculpting.

You take granulated sweetness, melt it under precise heat, and stretch it into impossible shapes. Delicate wings. Crystal towers. A carousel of fragile wonder—all hollow inside, brittle to the breath. Meant not for tasting, but for display.

That was your circus, Klaus.

Not a show. Not a sanctuary. A centerpiece.

And you? You were the sugar artist. The master of melted masks. You stood in the spotlight with your freaks frozen in time, posed like edible trophies—Ajax and Damien—polished, positioned, and paraded for the crowd. Not because you cherished them.

But because they looked good on the table.

You made pain ornamental.

You spun trauma into taffy, twisted it into shapes that made children cheer and monsters laugh. You weren’t nurturing damaged souls. You were glazing them. Coating over their wounds with just enough gloss that no one would question the hollowness inside.

But sugar doesn’t hold.

Not under pressure.

Not under truth.

A sugar sculpture survives only in stasis—no heat, no touch, no time. And Klaus, you touched too much. You kept the fire on too long. You demanded too many encores, too many dances, too many acts of loyalty while the cracks in your carousel deepened.

And now?

Your showpiece has collapsed.

Ajax shattered your frame. Damien punched holes through your glass menagerie. And you, bleeding and shrieking on the mat, looked up not at enemies—but at your own creations turned back against you. The audience didn’t witness betrayal.

They saw the inevitable.

Because your artistry was a lie.

You didn’t sculpt with love or care. You shaped with fear. With control. With the knowledge that the moment your performers stopped fearing you, they’d crumble the whole display with a single breath.

You stood in the center of your masterpiece thinking it immortal.

And now you’re choking on the shards.

There’s nothing left of your command but sugar dust on the wind. Your freaks have fled. Your spotlight flickers. And the tent you so proudly pitched has melted into a puddle of broken dreams and scorched illusions.

And here I come, Klaus.

To strip away what remains. 

Because I know what sugar becomes when it dies. It doesn’t rot like meat or spoil like cream. It scorches. It blackens. It sticks to the pan in bitter streaks that poison whatever’s cooked next.

That’s what you are now.

Burnt residue.

You see, I plate truth. I craft meals that break facades and force men to taste what they’ve pretended not to feel. But I don’t use sugar, Klaus. Not the kind that blinds. Because I know the cost of sweetness without substance.

You built a sculpture.

I’m going to build a fire.

Not for show.

For cleansing.

You’ll feel it not in performance—but in absence. The silence where applause once echoed. The cold where control used to live. And when you stare into that void, remembering how pretty your masterpiece once looked, you’ll understand that it was never built to last.

It was only built to break.

And I?

I just arrived to sweep it into the bin.

Learn, Claim

El Mariachi MuerteEMM, Promo

♫ Don’t go chasing waterfalls
Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to
I know that you’re gonna have it your way or nothing at all
But I think you’re moving too fast…♫

Chairs are designed to be sturdy.

But every chair has its limits. An amount of weight that will push it past its breaking point. We never truly know what that breaking point is until it is too late.

By pushing past the limits, destroying the chair in the process. We call this learning the hard way.

Mi amigos, the hard way is the only way Jasper Redgrave knows how to learn. He’s been forever chasing his ever-elusive magnum opus. A masterpiece he’d be willing to do anything to attain. That goal, Redgrave’s dream, a waterfall he spent his life chasing.

He’s left no stone unturned, no throat unslit in order to create that perfect artwork. He lay claim to all of Arcadia to try and create that masterpiece.

But the harder Redgrave chased his dream, the more weight he piled up on that chair… and somewhere along the line, that chair broke.

And it was Jackson Cade that broke it. Redgrave found himself on Deathrow.

His gallery lost. His artworks gone.

So he chased another waterfall. Another chair that would bear the weight of his endless search for relevance.

CJ Thorpe was that chair, and Redgrave broke him too. But Thorpe was merely a river compared to the waterfall Jasper truly seeks to claim.

The one that cost him his dream. Jackson Cade himself.

He’ll keep coming for you Cade, time and time again until he claims every ounce of control away from you and gets what he wants…

You broken. For you, Jackson, have become that legacy he chases. His magnum opus.

♫ I know that you’re gonna have it your way or nothing at all
But I think you’re moving too fast…♫

Jasper Redgrave, All you’ve learned through the brutal twists and turns of what you call art, is that you can’t catch water with your bare hands.

Some things can’t be claimed… Some things you can’t conquer. You’ll chase that waterfall of Cade until he breaks and everything comes tumbling down.

But what if you’re simply not powerful enough to find that breaking point. That shot after shot, you attack that chair but it still stands… dented but functional.

Have you learned anything at all, Jasper?

I’ve stopped chasing waterfalls by breaking chairs.

Instead, I’ve found a way to rise above that endless quest. I’ve climbed the ladder alongside Gemini.

I’ve climbed my way back to trust. Back up that waterfall I once thought lost.

Seeking the door, Gemini at my side.

From atop the ladder we stand, we can see the way. We can see your art, like finger painting. Your legacy, meaningless.

Everything has its breaking point, Jasper mi amigo… And you are broken.

Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to. Or we will force you to, the hard way.

After all, that’s the only way you learn.

Lone Wolf Pack

Wolf Fang AyameWolf Fang Ayame

“Wolves are naturally pack animals. They desire to hunt together and have strict hierarchies associated with them. But at the same time paradoxically they have a key phrase attached to them. The phrase lone wolf. With just two words a person has been conjured into your head. That specific type.” 

 

“And yet the phrase comes from such a more saddening place. It comes from a place of desperation. The lone wolf having to hide from their original pack most of all for survival. With the end goal trying to attach themselves to a new pack. With that do you not see the lone world being a more pitiable figure?” 

 

“You know, let’s take our own little lone wolf as an example. Drewett, exiled from his former pack and in a desperate bid for his own head ran for sanctuary wherever he could. So instead of starving and dying in the middle of the street we gave you a hand after we learned that you were able to be trusted. And it was all the better for everyone as in the end you began to thrive for your choices.”

“I never had an issue with you joining. I had an issue with your thriving. You went from a starved but loyal dog under the thumb of Zeus to an excitable dog who leapt at every chance you got. Feasting over and over again until you made the mistake every lone wolf is doomed to make.” 

 

“You forgot your place in the hierarchy” 

 

“So eager to push people’s trust, so eager to prove yourself. You paid no mind to who you had to step over to make your point. Once or twice that would’ve been brushed off as carelessness. But it’s happened far too many times and it’s time you’ve learned.” 

“I am no opportunity to be jumped at or leapt over.”

“I am the Dragon Princess Wolf Fang Ayame. And most of all I am the Alpha. And I’ve had to deal with many different lone wolves in my time. I’ve had to deal with their sad eyes as they hunger for more. The fire in their eyes as they have something to prove. And there’s a common denominator in all of them.” 

 

“The moment you set them straight all of that goes away. They learn quickly that I cannot be pushed around, that my word is law. The lone wolf will quickly know their place in another part of the pack. And they will know that there is only one person who may thrive before anyone else in the pack.” 

 

“And that is the Alpha of the pack.”

Love

Jackson CadeJackson Cade, Promo

[Jackson Cade stands across from a clear plastic wall, a sneer on his face.]

“I think I’ve finally understood just why you refuse to let me go, Jasper.”

[Cade places a hand on the wall, Jasper Redgrave standing in the cell on the other side.]

“You’re going to find it funny, but the truth often is. I’ve studied you, I understand you.”

“I understand that you’re in love with me.”

[Jackson slams his fist against the cell.]

“It’s true, isn’t it? There’s a burning in your chest when you see me, your heart thumping against your ribcage til it threatens to break free. The way your eyes gloss over, your endless need to torment me and those I hold dear. It’s because you don’t just want me, Jasper. You need me, you’re obsessed with me.”

[He moves closer, locking eyes with the deranged artist.]

“And that’s why you’ve attached yourself to my hip, isn’t it? You can’t bear the thought of seeing me escape, you want to lock me up in your gallery, a piece of art hanging on your wall, a permanent reminder of the blasphemous love that you felt deep in the pits of your pitch black heart.”

“Because even in death you’ll still be able to covet me.”

[Cade chuckles, tired.]

“It’s funny, but it wasn’t until I saw Muerte and Gemini that it finally clicked. Those two are intertwined at the soul, their hearts connected like ink on canvas. But their love isn’t pure either, in fact it’s as depraved and deranged as your infatuation with me.”

“Because they can’t exist without one another, can they? Muerte betrayed his closest allies and kept Gemini free because he was obsessed with her. She was his dearest confidant, he knew that he couldn’t live without her and as such made sure she couldn’t live without him.”

“Everything Gemini does, every fear she has, ever happy moment she lives? It’s all connected back to the man who called her his amore. She needs him, she can’t exist without him. The moment one of them passes on, the other will follow suit.”

[Jackson shakes his head.]

“And I feel horrid for her, I know the position she’s in. But unlike me, Gemini has convinced herself that the man who loves her is someone who deserves love back. She feeds into his adoration, and in return, becomes ever closely bound to his soul.”

“That’s where our differences truly begin, though.”

“Because while you love me, Jasper? I hate you.”

“Truly fucking despise every part of you.”

“I can live without you.”

“I want to live without you.”

“So when you go down at their hands, I won’t help you, I won’t mourn you.”

“I’ll do what it takes to win without you.”

“Ascend that ladder, grab those titles, claim my victory.”

“Because at the end of the day, Jasper? No one is above the Law.”

“And unfortunately for all of you, I am the Law.”

Think, Learn…

GeminiGemini, Promo

Tables don’t lie.

They’re flat. Predictable. Honest in their construction.

They don’t pretend to be something they’re not. And when they break?

It’s loud. Sudden. Final.

Jackson Cade’s a lot like that.

Stubborn. Solid. Straightforward to the point of stupidity.

You always know exactly what he’s going to do because he never stops to think.

Especially when Jasper Redgrave’s in the room.

Every single time they cross paths, Cade walks in fists-first and eyes-closed, like the outcome’s already scripted and he’s the good guy by default.

Spoiler: you’re not.

You don’t think, Jack. You react.

You follow instincts dressed up as justice. You call it honor, but it’s just habit. You call it loyalty, but it’s just fear of asking why.

Why do I keep playing by the rules? Why do I keep getting burned? Why do I keep standing on these broken pieces expecting something to change?

I used to live like that too.

I used to think flat. Simple.

Surface-level.

If someone loved me, I followed. If someone led, I walked. Didn’t matter if they lied, or if the ground gave out beneath me.

Didn’t matter if the table cracked.

I still sat at it.

But tables break.

And when they did, when I broke, I had a choice.

Lay there in the debris. Or climb.

That’s where ladders come in, Jackson.

They don’t hand you anything. They don’t pretend.

They demand.

Step by step. Misstep by misstep.

They teach you pain.

Balance. Height. Fear.

You don’t run up a ladder. You learn it.

And that’s what I did.

I learned how to stand without needing someone else’s voice in my head. I learned how to fall and not shatter.

I learned how to think without being told what’s right.

You?

You’re still sitting at the same damn table Redgrave set for you years ago. Still acting the Little Eagle he cast you as. Still acting like if you crash through it hard enough, something noble comes out the other side.

But here’s the truth: You’ve never left that table.

You just keep rebuilding it. Over and over.

Your mentor. Your brother. Dead. Your father: working with Redgrave.

And still, you sit.

Meanwhile, I’m climbing.

And when we step into this match — surrounded by ladders and tables — I want you to understand what you’re really walking into.

I’m not the girl waiting for the answer anymore.

I’m not the one asking where I belong.

I built my place. I climbed to it.

And now I’m dragging that table with me — not to sit at it, but to put you through it.

You never think, Jackson.

So I’ll do it for you.

And when you’re lying in the rubble, wondering why your fists weren’t enough, why Jasper left you behind again, I’ll make you learn…

Tables don’t lie. Ladders don’t forgive.

And some of us had to think our way out. Learn our way up.

You just hit things and hoped.

I reached the top because I stopped trying to fix the table and started climbing the ladder.

You never stopped to think, and now you’re out of time to learn.