When I was a boy, I used to pray.

Not for toys. Not for riches. Not for miracles.

Just… for peace.

I used to get on my knees beside a bed too small for my bruised back, fold my hands, and whisper into the dark. I asked for one thing—please, God, make him stop.

Make Fernicus stop hitting my mother.

Make him stop hitting me.

That was it. That was all I ever wanted.

And you know what happened?

Nothing.

The beatings didn’t stop. They got worse.

God didn’t come. Nobody came. And I remember lying on that floor, gasping through broken ribs, wondering why He didn’t care. Wondering if maybe I’d done something wrong. Maybe I hadn’t prayed hard enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough.

I remember dragging myself to church the next day, my lip split open, my eye swollen shut, and asking a priest for help.

I asked him why. Why would a loving God ignore a child crying out in pain?

He said he’d pray for me.

But he didn’t.

He was a friend of my father and told him everything. The next night, Fernicus didn’t just beat me. He made sure I remembered it. And I did. Every second. Every scream. That’s what prayer got me.

See, I learned something that day—something they don’t teach in Sunday School.

God doesn’t exist.

So I stopped praying. I stopped whispering into the void. I stopped waiting for divine intervention, and I started doing things myself. I started surviving on my own terms. I started fighting for myself. Because if I wanted to see tomorrow, it wasn’t going to be because some glowing hand from heaven reached down and pulled me out.

It was going to be because I clawed my way through the dirt and the blood and the broken bones and found a way.

And now here I am.

Felix Foley.

A broken man patched together by resilience and rage, standing at the gates of Olympus, looking the world champion in the eye.

And what do I see?

I see a man on his knees.

Ezekiel Graves.

Praying. Preaching. Chanting.

Hoping his God will carry him through another title defense at Ring of Dreams.

But let me save you the suspense, Ezekiel.

He’s not coming.

Not for you.

Not for your gold.

Not even for your soul.

You’re whispering into the same void I did. You’re asking for a miracle from someone who isn’t listening. Maybe He never was.

And while you’re down there, fingers laced, eyes closed, hoping for salvation—

I’ll be fighting.

I’ll be doing.

I’ll be winning.

Hatchet?

He’ll be out there swinging wild, chasing chaos, thinking this is another twisted carnival ride.

But I’ve already survived the worst house of horrors anyone could imagine. I’ve lived through my nightmare. And I came out the other side with scars and strength.

At Ring of Dreams, the boy who used to beg for mercy becomes the man who takes what he’s earned.

No prayers.

No whispers.

Just war.

And when that bell rings, and the smoke clears, and the world needs a new champion?

They won’t hear a prayer.

They’ll hear my name.

Felix Foley.