Tick… tick… tick…

That’s the sound I hear when I look at Harold Attano.

Not footsteps. Not breath. Just the slow, relentless march of time.

See, Harold… you remind me of a clock. Not the kind that hangs proudly on a wall. Not the kind that strikes with purpose. No. You’re the other kind. The broken kind. The kind that’s been wound too tight, run too long, and now stutters forward, hoping no one notices it’s about to stop.

You had time, once. Mortality. Purpose. Family. You were a hitman, sure, a killer for Zeus, but you were more than that. You were a man. And then, like time always does… it slipped through your fingers.

Tick… tick… tick…

You lost your family. You lost your name. You lost yourself behind concrete walls and steel bars, watching the seconds drain from a life you could’ve lived better.

And now you’re out. Now you think it’s your moment. You’re trying to make your last seconds count.

But Harold… You don’t realize just how little time you’ve got left.

Because time is cruel. Time doesn’t give back what it takes. And when you waste it like you did—when you spend it killing for a man like god who never gave a damn, when you let grief rot your insides, when you drown in the hourglass—you don’t get to come back and demand more.

You’re running on borrowed seconds, Attano.

And I’m the one they call when the sand runs out.

You think you’ve got another chapter to write? You think teaming with Grimskull and Narcissa, two creatures born of shadows and sins, makes you dangerous?

No. It just makes you desperate. Three broken things trying to piece themselves together into something threatening.

But the truth is, I see through it.

You’re not here to win. You’re here to stall. To buy yourself one more minute, one more moment, before the end comes for you again.

But I’m not giving you that. Not this time.

I’m not Grimskull, still clinging to whatever pit he crawled out of. I’m not Narcissa, painting her face and her pain in the same breath.

I’m Tombstone.

I’ve been here longer than you’ve drawn breath.

I’ve ferried souls across the veil who had more fight left in them than you do now.

And I don’t forget what men like you are. Hitmen with regrets. Fathers with graves. Clocks with no time left.

At Warzone, me, Nero, and Redgrave—we’re not just another obstacle in your dying hour.

We are the end of the line.

And when you’re lying in that ring, staring up at the lights, listening to the roar of the crowd fade into silence, you’ll hear that sound again…

Tick… tick… tick…

And then?

Nothing.

Because time’s up, Harold.

And I’m here to make sure you never hear that clock again.