Nicotine.

Burns the lungs. Warms the blood. It calms the nerves and sharpens the mind, all in the same breath.

It’s poison, sure—but it’s the kind of poison a man grows to love.

The first drag of a cigarette is like greeting an old friend. That slow inhale, the way it coils through the body, how it grips the throat, how it lingers. Every puff a moment of control. Every exhale a release.

That’s what this match is to me. Lambs to the Slaughter?

It’s a cigarette.

And every single one of the nineteen names stepping into that ring with me?

They’re just drags.

Felix Foley. The sweet inhale. All charm and hope. The illusion of something light—harmless even. But underneath? There’s bitterness. There’s regret. And when I breathe him in, I’ll taste every bad decision he’s ever made.

Grimskull. The middle drag. Strong. Sharp. That burn in the chest. That reminder that time is running out. He’s seen too much. Done too much. But in the end, he’s just smoke. Just another hit to pass the time.

Narcissa. That fragrant puff near the end. Pretty packaging. Fancy name. But when it hits the lungs, it’s no different than the rest—poison dressed in luxury. I’ll drag her down, just like the others, and exhale her like she was nothing but vapor.

And then the rest of them… nineteen little clouds rising into the air, vanishing into the dark.

One by one, they’ll come. And one by one, I’ll take them in.

Not because I need to. Because I want to. Because that’s what this is. That’s what it’s always been.

Addiction.

The need to feel them struggle. The need to see the light fade behind their eyes. The need to put them out and move on to the next. Lambs to the Slaughter isn’t about glory. It’s not about survival. It’s about satisfaction.

That deep, full drag before the cigarette’s done. That last taste of the kill. That final burn before the ashes fall. That’s what I’m after.

And when they’re all gone—when every name has been puffed, pulled, crushed underfoot—when I’ve had my fill and only the smoke remains…

That’s when I put it out.

Right there in the center of the ring.

I’ll press it into the canvas like it’s a coffin lid. Like it’s the final nail.

And I’ll stand there, breathing in the silence, surrounded by the ghosts I’ve just made.

Because I don’t fear the consequences.

This body? This face? This soul they all pretend to fear?

It ain’t here to win a match. It ain’t here to prove anything.

It’s here to consume. To take every last bit of what they are and turn it into smoke, into nothing, into ashes. So come on, Arcadia. Light the match.

Let me breathe. And when it’s over? All that’ll be left is the scent of something burned…

And the man who lit it.

Gravedigger.