Lambs to the Slaughter.

Twenty bodies in one ring. One by one, they’ll fall. They’ll beg. They’ll scream. They’ll reach for something—anything—to hold onto.

But all of them?

They end up the same way.

In the ground.

Arcadia is full of souls. I’ve walked among them. The good, the bad, and the downright ugly. And they all want something.

Some chase purpose, clawing for meaning in the madness. Some want money, thinking they can buy a legacy. Some just want glory, that fleeting taste of immortality before the end swallows them whole.

And a few? A few don’t want anything at all. They just want to feel something before they’re buried.

But here’s the truth. The hard, cold truth.

It doesn’t matter what you want. It doesn’t matter how high you fly or how hard you fight.

You all end up the same. Six feet deep. Face full of dirt. Name etched in stone.

Just another plot in the graveyard of Arcadia.

But not me.

I don’t get buried. I do the burying. I’ve stood at the edge of the grave for longer than any of you have been alive.

I am the last man standing because I do not fall.

Felix Foley. The do-gooder. The puppet master of smiles and second chances. Always trying to see the light in the darkness, and getting swallowed whole every time. The ultimate underdog? Maybe. But underdogs make great eulogies. His kindness has carved his tombstone already. I’ve shown it.

Harold Attano. The hitman with a conscience. You’ve put bodies in the ground, Harold—I’ll give you that. But now you’re trying to outrun the ghosts and trying to rewrite the past. You think redemption’s waiting on the other side of this match? It’s not. All that’s waiting is a hole with your name on it. The dirt doesn’t forget, Harold. And neither do I.

Narcissa. The fashion icon turned executioner. Always dressed to kill, always chasing the next spotlight. But glory fades. Styles change. And when the lights go out and the glamor dies, all that’s left is the echo of applause—and the cold touch of the grave. You can’t stitch a shroud pretty enough to hide from me, Narcissa.

And the rest of them? The other lambs lining up, hopeful, desperate, believing they’re the one. They all want to make history. They all want to be remembered.

But the only thing they’re going to be is dust. This match isn’t a celebration. It’s not a shot at glory.

It’s a mass burial.

One ring. Nineteen graves. One shovel.

And I’m the one holding it.

I don’t care about titles. I don’t care about dreams. I don’t care about redemption or revenge or resurrection.

All I care about is finality.

Because in the end, every soul screams the same. Every body falls the same.

And I’ll be there, as I always have, watching the dirt cover them.

I am not a lamb. I am the slaughter.

And when it’s over… When the blood dries and the crowd quiets… When every heartbeat but mine goes still…

I’ll still be standing.

Immortal.

Unbroken.

Tombstone.