You and I, Foley… we’re not rivals.

We’re not opponents.

We’re not even two men standing across from one another.

We are an old wound.

 That’s what we’ve always been — the kind of wound that never truly closes, no matter how many years pass, no matter how many times you try to stitch it shut, no matter how many layers of hope you wrap around it.

Some wounds stay open.

Some wounds stay raw.

Some wounds define a man.

And you? You’ve been mine.

And I’ve been yours.

From the moment Fernicus dragged you through that house of horrors… to the moment I dragged you through Red Snow. From the moment you begged for mercy… to the moment I showed you none. Our history bled into the ground long before either of us understood what we were becoming.

You were the pain. I was the blade. And together we carved something into one another that never healed.

But here’s the truth you’ve never wanted to face:

An old wound… belongs to the one who made it.

I am the cut. You are the consequence.

Every scar you wear has my name etched into it. Every nightmare you’ve ever had plays out in my shadow. Every victory you’ve crawled toward has been a rebellion against me, a boy trying to prove he can outrun the thing that broke him.

But here’s the part you always forget, Foley —

Old wounds don’t fade.

They reopen.

Again and again.

And again.

Every time you think you’re past me… you’re not. Every time you think you’ve grown stronger… you haven’t.  Every time you think you’ve finally healed… I return, and the blood flows fresh.

Not because I am cruel — though cruelty comes easily. Not because I am wicked — though wickedness never leaves me. But because I am inevitable.

I am the ferryman.

The constant.

The end that waits at the edge of every story.

You can win titles. You can fight monsters. You can carry the weight of a thousand battles on your shoulders and smile through the bruises…but you can’t rewrite the scar I gave you.

You can’t unmake what I made.

You can’t heal what was never meant to close.

And deep down — in the places you don’t let anyone see — you know it. You feel that old wound pulling, aching, calling me back like a phantom memory.

Because you and I? We were forged in pain. And pain is eternal.

So at Ascension, when you stand across from me again, you won’t be standing as a champion. Or as a beloved hero. Or as the man who clawed his way out of hell to find hope.

You will be standing as Felix Foley —the boy with a scar that never healed.

And I will be standing as Tombstone — the man who gave it to him… and the man who will tear it open one last time.

Old wounds always bleed, Foley.

And you’ve been bleeding for me your whole life.