You think the paint protects you.

You smear it across your face and pretend it’s armor. A joke. A mask. A flag. Something to wave in the face of fear and call it rebellion. You hide behind it like it means something—like it makes you something.

But paint melts.

And when the fire comes, Hatchet—it always comes—the paint runs. It drips. It bubbles. It screams.

I know.

Because I wore a mask once too.

Not greasepaint. Not color. Not laughter. But skin. Flesh that I thought would hold. A face I thought was mine. A soul I thought could be saved.

The Third Eye offered me a deal once. Just like I’m offering you now. I was arrogant. I thought I didn’t need help. I thought I could stand alone.

So I said no.

And the fire came.

It didn’t ask. It didn’t wait. It took.

Burned the mask off my face. Burned the man out of my body. Burned until there was nothing left but this—bone, ash, and regret.

I became Grimskull not because I wanted to… but because I deserved to.

Now I stand here offering you a deal. Not because I care. Not because I think you’re clever or useful or even relevant.

But because I know how this story ends when you say no.

And I want to see if you’re smart enough to stop it.

Because you’ve got fire all around you, Hatchet. You think that the Gathering will laugh through anything. That there’s nothing in this world that can’t be drowned in music, women, and that vile beverage.

But all that bravado? That noise? That’s just paint too.

And paint melts.

You’ve got no idea what it feels like when the color runs and all that’s left is you. Raw. Real. Alone.

You think you’re the storm. But I’ve lived through it.

I clawed out of the wreckage while my skin peeled off in sheets. I listened to the sound of my own voice screaming until it stopped sounding human. I’ve breathed ash. I’ve drunk fire.

What do you know about survival, Hatchet?

You’ve never been tested. You’ve never stood at the edge of death with no one laughing, no beat to dance to, no crowd to cheer your name.

Just silence.

Just the burn.

You think this is a choice about money?

No. This is about what’s left of you when the heat gets real. When Olympus starts to fall. When the streets are lined with bodies and the Gathering ain’t gathered anymore.

You think you’ll laugh in that moment?

You won’t.

You’ll melt.

You’ll look in the mirror and see what I see every day—what’s left of a man who thought he could spit in the face of fate.

So take the deal.

Take it, or find out what happens when the fire doesn’t stop.

Because I’ve already burned.

I’ve already died.

And what’s standing here now isn’t covered in paint.

You want to be me, Hatchet?

Say no.

And I’ll show you what it feels like to melt.