Drake Nygma

Location: A snow-lashed mountainside. A blizzard howls in the background. The screen is dim, flickering with each gust of wind. Smoke rises from a shattered war horn buried in the ice. Tyr Dagrsson steps into view, bare-chested despite the cold, his body etched with runes and scars. His long, frostbitten hair is matted with blood. His eyes? Empty. Violent. Eternal. TYR DAGRSSON (growling low, as if the wind itself speaks through him): “The gods are dead. The banners? Burned. And the ring you stand in? It's just a funeral pyre waiting to be lit.” He takes a slow step forward, steam rising from his breath like smoke from a battlefield. His fist clenches—rings of bone and iron cutting into his palm. “AWS calls it a Rumble. I call it a sacrifice.” “You hear that? That’s the sound of your pulse racing, your heartbeat elevating. Your nervous system knows a conqueror approaches.” He kneels. Slams his fists into the snow. The ground quakes—a symbolic tremor of what’s to come. “I don’t come to play. I don't climb ladders. I have come to break knees. I come to drag screaming souls over that top rope and spit curses into their eyes.” His voice rises now—no longer cold, but a fire stoked by madness and war. “Don’t pray for mercy. There is none. Don’t wait for help. They’ll run. And don’t look to the skies for salvation— because the storm IS ME.” He turns, blood splattered across his back forming a twisted, unknowable rune. “I am the void made flesh. The blade behind your spine. When the final bell rings, and you lie gasping on the outside floor? Know this—” “You weren’t eliminated. You were chosen.” “Tyr Dagrsson enters the Carnival. The axe swings now.” 📱@TyrDagrssonOfficial 🔁 Account activity log shows suspicious login 🧊🗡️🔥 SIG VINTER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT. hi. tyr is busy brooding in the woods somewhere. sharpening axes. eating bark. being tall. so I, SIG VINTER (daughter of chaos, patron saint of glitter carnage), have hijacked his account. this is now my page. welcome to @GoatSlayer666. 🧠 Charlie Feigel? still shaped like a tax return. 💀 Daron Smythe? you peaked in 2004, grandpa. 🌪️ Orphius? your name sounds like a Greek salad. ☀️ Summer Rayne? i bite. that’s not a threat. it’s a hobby. 🧛‍♂️ Eric Herrera? i know what you did in 1997. and to ALL of AWS? the VINTERS are coming. 🩸 and we don’t come in peace. we come with goats, god complexes, and absolutely no adult supervision. #TeamVinter #SisterOfSlaughter #TyrDidntApproveThis 🧵POST: SIG VINTER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT. 📍@GoatSlayer666 @ChairshotMami69 wait this isn’t tyr… who tf is “sig vinter” and why do i love her??? 😳 #GoatSlayer666 #QueenOfChaos @DaronSmytheFanClub how dare this glitter goblin disrespect DARON SMYTHE, ULTRAVIOLENCE KING. he's been wrestling longer than she’s been ALIVE. @EricHerreraSimp “i know what you did in 1997” 💀💀💀 what did he do though??? girl don’t tease like that. @AWSManagementTea Charlie Feigel on suicide watch after reading this. man was just trying to eat his cereal 😭😭 #PoorCharlie @WrestlingWitchxx Orphius Marius sounding like a Greek salad took me OUT. Sig Vinter is chaos in boots and I stan. 🔥🔥🔥 #VinterTakeover @RealSummerRayne reposts with eye roll emoji and snake gif “some of us don’t need goats to be relevant.” @TyrDagrssonOfficial (Later That Night) [Post Deleted] 🗡️ NO. — Tyr Dagrsson @SigAgain 🧍‍♂️<— tyr seeing his account turned into a glitter cult ✨🐐✨ #MakeAWSWeirder 🎥 [Live Stream: @GoatSlayer666] 🎤 SIG VINTER PRESENTS: GOD COMPLEX “Tonight’s Guests: Odin, Thor, and Loki (in my brain)” [static. camera flickers. glitter overlay. goat bleating in distance.] SIG VINTER (wearing a neon faux-fur coat and sunglasses indoors): "HELLO, MORTALS AND MANAGEMENT.I’m Sig Vinter—daughter of chaos, mischief, and a woman with legally no filter.Tonight, we’re interviewing the pantheon inside my skull while my brother Tyr watches scowling.” [Camera pans to Tyr sitting off to the side, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eye twitches.] SIG (swivels dramatically to empty chair #1): "First up—ODIN, my big dead grandpapa! Odin, how does it feel knowing your favorite granddaughter turned AWS into a glitter-fueled fever dream?" (pause) SIG (as ODIN, deep gruff voice): "Well Siggy, you’ve always been a blazing disappointment wrapped in charm. I’m proud and terrified." SIG (laughs maniacally, flings goat-shaped confetti): "Aw, thanks! Let’s bring out THOR, God of Thunder and questionable dating decisions!" (adjusts posture, speaks like a frat boy): "Yo, Sig, you’re literally insane, but like… in a hot way. Respectfully, I would not smite." [Cut to Tyr facepalming] TYR (muttering): "This is why I don’t let her near hammers. Or microphones." SIG (leans in, whispering): "And now… the moment you’ve all been waiting for…the man, the myth, the prison warden of my neurons… LOKI." SIG (as Loki, silky and smug): "Oh darling, let’s be honest. You didn’t inherit my madness. You surpassed it. Make management beg for order. Then burn it." [Sig drops mic. Glitter explodes. Goat bleats again.] SIG (smiling sweetly): "And that concludes God Complex. Next week I interview a haunted turnbuckle and the concept of shame." TYR (standing up): "This stream is over. I’m burning the router." SIG (chasing him with a sparkle baton): "You can’t silence theology, Tyr!" 💬 Fan Reactions Flood In: @AsgardianSimp420: not me thirsting for thor voiced by sig vinter 😭😭 @CharlieFeigelAWS: this is a workplace violation in progress. @OrphiusCult69: i want Loki-Sig to call me a problem. just once. 🎥 [Sig Vinter Presents: God Complex — “Corporate Puppetry” Edition] 🧵 Live from @GoatSlayer666: The only stream brave enough to confront management using fabric and mental illness. [Scene opens in what appears to be a throne made of folding chairs, caution tape, and a half-eaten fruit basket.] SIG VINTER (wearing a dollar-store crown, eyes wide with manic glee): "Welcome back, mortals, heretics, and emotionally unstable vice chairmen. Tonight I am not Sig Vinter. Tonight I am LOKI. And I have questions… for the threadbare tyrant himself…" [She holds up a crudely made sock puppet with wire-rim glasses, a frown drawn in sharpie, and a tiny name tag: “Charles Feigel, AWS”] LOKI-SIG (voice silky, sinister): "Well, well, Charlie. Big man with the big desk. How does it feel to run a kingdom teetering on collapse, built on sweat, blood, and the desperate screams of people far more interesting than you?" CHARLES SOCK-PUPPET (nasally voice, full of disdain): "Sig, this is a gross misuse of company bandwidth. We are a legitimate—" LOKI-SIG: "Shh-shhh, sweet puppet. You don’t speak, you answer. Why haven’t you booked my brother Tyr to win everything? Hmm? Is it because he has the personality of a brick wall in a snowstorm, or because I stabbed your real-life inbox with a goat emoji swarm?" CHARLES SOCK-PUPPET: "That was cyber harassment, actually." LOKI-SIG: "That was performance art, Charles." [Sig leans in close to the puppet, voice dropping to a whisper] LOKI-SIG: "You think you’re in control. But deep down, we both know… every kingdom burns eventually. Especially the ones run by cowards in khakis." [She throws the Charles puppet into a flaming trash can off-camera, which may or may not be CGI.] SIG (breaking character, cackling): "Whoopsie! Guess HR’s gonna puppet together a new mouthpiece, huh?" 💬 Fan Comments Roll In: @TurnbuckleTheatre: SHE THREW CHARLES IN THE TRASH. LOKI STYLE. I’M ASCENDING. @WheelingForDaron: Sig Vinter is the reason AWS is in constant chaos and I wouldn’t have it any other way. @FeigelInFear: Charlie Feigel’s sock puppet had more emotional range than his real-life emails. @Orphius_Has_Suffered_Enough: Wait until she interviews Orphius using a sad balloon with googly eyes.

Session Twelve: "The Butcher, the Ashes, and the Laughing God" Counseling Log: Drake Nygma / The Sphinx Date: Classified Subject exhibits increasing dissociative phenomena. Room under surveillance. Recording begins. The chair creaks before anything is said. The Sphinx is seated—but it feels more like a throne today. He doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe, not that you’d notice. Eyes black and gold like molten tar. He stares ahead, jaw slack for just a moment—then curls into a grin so wide it splits the silence. “Do you know what happens to the butcher who stops sharpening the blade?” He leans forward. The lights flicker once. “He gets slaughtered. He gets eaten. Just another sack of meat. But not me. No, no... not me. I am the one sharpening the knife on the bones of this industry. I have seen what lies beyond the ropes, beyond the belts and back-pats. I’ve seen the hollow eyes of the fans, begging for something real. And I? I am their answer.” He giggles. It's light. Then, it twists. “Not their savior. Oh no. Never their savior. I’m their consequence.” He shifts suddenly—snaps his fingers beside his temple. “Daron Smythe, still gripping that Ultraviolence title like a crucifix while pretending he’s not bleeding out inside. Management trying to stuff the blood back into the curtain. The new hires, bright-eyed, all asking the same stupid question—‘What’s my gimmick?’” He leans in, eyes gleaming with glee. “I’ll give you a gimmick. You’re all corpses. Dancing meat in sparkly tights. And I’m the laughing god of your funeral.” He howls. Full-bellied, hands thrown back. It echoes through the chamber like a church bell collapsing. “You still think this is about wins? About belts? You still think I'm here to ‘climb the ranks’? No. No. I'm the one burning the ladder. Every rung. Every name. Every division. You, Daron. You, Mya. Summer. Orphius..... none of you are spared. You exist in my world now. And in my world?” His smile disappears like a guillotine falling. “There are no gods. Just fire.” Therapist: “You... believe you're bringing something necessary?” “I know I am. They cheer blood, but call me insane when I give them a flood. Hypocrisy dressed in faux concern. ‘Don’t go too far, Sphinx.’ ‘Don’t target them all, Sphinx.’ Oh, but I will. I must.” He slowly rises from the chair, arms stretched like a preacher before the pulpit. “This place—the locker rooms, the federations, the online forums—it's all a circus. And the clowns? They're scared of the real joker walking into their ring. I’m not some punchline. I’m the final act. No spotlight. No curtain call. Just collapse.” His voice shifts again, dropping into that low rasp—inhuman and vengeful. “What they fail to understand is... I’m not here for them to understand. I'm here to make them scream. Not just in pain—but in recognition. In horror. In that moment when the camera cuts and there’s no more kayfabe to protect them. Just me. The mirror. The blood. The truth.” He walks a slow circle around the room now. Fingers trailing across the walls like they’re made of skin. “You wanna know the truth, Doc? I don’t hate Daron Smythe because he’s better. I don’t hate him because he beat me. I hate him because he believes in lies. He thinks legacy means anything. He thinks his little reign will be remembered.” He snaps his fingers again. “Like that—it’ll be gone. And all that will remain is the laugh. My laugh. My message. Etched into your screens, your arenas, your nightmares.” Therapist: “And what is the message?” A pause. Everything is still. Then—he looks directly into the camera. Right into the eyes of whoever will eventually watch this tape. “That nothing lasts. That the heroes will die screaming. That the villains will laugh last. That sanity... is a chain. And I broke it. He slowly walks to the exit. Before leaving, he turns and delivers one last whisper—words not meant to be spoken so gently. “The Carnival never ends. And neither do I.” He exits. The door doesn’t close—it simply shuts itself, like the room is exhaling. A single note of laughter remains, echoing longer than it should. End Session. WARNING: SUBJECT DEEMED UNCONTAINABLE. DO NOT APPROACH WITHOUT SECURITY CLEARANCE. Internal AWS MemoFROM: Charles Feigel, AWS Executive Director TO: All Talent and Security SUBJECT: Containment Protocol: Drake Nygma / “The Sphinx” CLASSIFIED – EYES ONLY “We have a problem. Not a character issue. Not a backstage politics issue. Not even a kayfabe issue.We have a detonation in progress. The Sphinx is no longer playing a part. He’s rewriting the script with blood. And I don’t know whose yet.” In the Shadows: The Executioner’s BladeBeneath the warehouse where he once trained, where echoing punches met rusted lockers and his own laughter drowned out the groans of lesser men, The Sphinx builds. He builds not with metal—but with memories. With grudges sharpened into steel. With the broken promises of every promoter who said “maybe next show.” With the whispers of fans who chanted his name once—and forgot it in the next breath. The Executioner’s Blade isn’t real... until it is. Not until you see it in his hand, blackened like burnt bone, shaped like a straight razor the size of a coffin lid, etched with the names of every man and woman he’s bled. Some names are carved. Others are still being engraved. Daron Smythe. Mya Lee. Feigel. And then: YOU. The Sphinx recorded footage, later posted to AWS socials without authorization:A flickering lightbulb. One eye is visible. The rest of his face was wrapped in shadow. The faint grind of steel on concrete behind him. “Feigel... poor, plump, prancing Charles Feigel. You made the mistake of trying to manage the unmanageable. You thought I’d cut a promo like the rest of your livestock. You thought I’d sell t-shirts like a good little worker. But this?” The camera shifts. You see a gloved hand running along the blade. It’s massive. Gleaming black like obsidian. It hums, though no sound should exist. “This is the Executioner’s Blade. Made from the bones of hope. Tempered in the fires of every lie this industry ever told me. And now?” “Now I swing.” Charles Feigel’s Official Response (Press Conference):“The Sphinx is suspended—indefinitely. AWS does not condone this level of chaos, and I assure fans and staff we are taking necessary action.” A reporter asks if The Sphinx has been seen near Daron Smythe. Feigel pauses. Rubs his eyes. “We’ve... increased security. But if he wants in, he’ll get in. He’s not climbing over walls—he’s crawling under the skin.” 🎭 “TALK IS TORMENT with THE SPHINX”Broadcast illegally via AWS servers. Aired at 3:33 AM. The set is a mangled parody of a talk show. The desk is crooked, stained with something sticky and red. The “studio audience” is cardboard cutouts of terrified fans, each with duct-taped mouths and googly eyes. A laugh track malfunctions in the background, cycling between cackling and screaming. The Sphinx enters in a shredded tuxedo with blood-red lapels. His hair is slicked back with what looks like oil… or something worse. His grin is painted wider than nature ever intended, and he bows to the silence as if it’s thunderous applause. “Ladies, gentlemen, and beautifully broken abominations in between... WELCOME to the show no one survives—Talk is Torment!” (He points finger guns at the camera. Bang. Bang.) Cue erratic jazz. A trumpet squeals like a dying animal. A puppet with googly eyes wearing a name tag that says “ERIC HERRERA” is dragged onto the guest couch. He flops lifelessly, one arm already torn off. “My first guest tonight is none other than Mr. Eric ‘Can’t Win a Match Without Crying About It’ Herrera! Say hi, Eric!” He bashes the puppet’s face on the desk. Once. Twice. The audience laugh track triggers a baby crying. “Oh nooo, Sphinx! You’re being mean to me again! Why can’t you be more like Daron? He wears boots and has a MAN’S haircut!” He puts a paper crown on the puppet and sets it on fire. “Oops. Must’ve been too much heat. Happens with trash.” Cut to: Puppet #2 – labeled “#1 DARON SMYTHE” – wheeled in on a throne of broken chairs. This puppet is bigger, bulkier. Its head is a painted pumpkin with a scowl and cheap sunglasses. The Sphinx caresses it lovingly. “Ahh… Daron. My favorite failure. How’s the Ultraviolet title feeling, big guy? Heavy? Like guilt? Or regret?” (He pokes the puppet’s chest. A small puff of ash escapes.) “See, Daron, they all call you #1. But I’ve seen your script. I’ve read the ending. You’re not the hero—you’re the sacrifice.” The lights flicker. The camera goes crooked. For a second, we swear The Sphinx’s face glitches—becomes something else. More skeletal. More wrong. “They all pretend you’re untouchable. But in my show? Everyone bleeds. There are no safe bets. No legends. Just ashes. Just screams.” (Leans into the Daron puppet’s ear, whispering:) “You’re not the wall I climb… you’re the altar I split open.” The puppet crumbles. Literally. It disintegrates in his hand like dust, revealing a small shard of mirror inside. The Sphinx stares into it. His face warps again. “Do you get it now? This isn’t wrestling. This is a revelation. And I am your twisted little god. So tell management—tell Feigel, tell Daron, tell every shrieking, tweeting, crying fan in the cheap seats…” “The Executioner’s Blade has tasted wood and stuffing. Next—it wants bone.” The music rises into shrieking strings as the “audience” cutouts catch fire behind him. The show ends not with applause… but with sobbing. Real or imagined, we’ll never know.

The room is dim. The air is thick with tension. The low hum of fluorescent lights flickers as The Sphinx, Drake Nygma, sits across from the therapist’s desk. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers twitching ever so slightly as if to hold back something… monstrous. The calm façade he’s put on now feels like an illusion, thin and fragile. Therapist: “Drake, how are you feeling today?” His smile is wide, unnaturally so, like the mask it is. The Sphinx: “Feeling? That’s a quaint little word, isn’t it? Feeling… like it means anything. Like it’s some kind of sweet release. But it’s not. Not for me. I know the drill. How I feel doesn’t matter. But you, darling, you’re the one who's going to feel it. All of it. In every way.” His voice shifts, the calm, calculated manner he’s been holding onto for the past few weeks begins to crack, as if something darker, something more primal, is clawing its way out of his mind. His eyes narrow with a sick kind of focus. The Sphinx: “You want to know the truth? I feel like every single person I’ve ever crossed… they don’t deserve to breathe. The ones who doubt me. The ones who act like they know how this game works. The ones like Daron Smythe—clutching that Ultraviolence title like it’s some kind of validation. He’s just a shadow of me. You think you know what it feels like to be at the top? To hold power? To be that untouchable? You don’t. None of them do.” The Sphinx's lips curl into something resembling a grin, but it’s sharp—hunger behind the teeth. The Sphinx: “They want answers, don’t they? Everybody’s asking questions, constantly. ‘What’s next, Sphinx? What’s the game plan? How do you do it?’ You’re all waiting for something. A riddle. An answer. But I’m done with the questions. Done with the puzzles.” He stands abruptly, knocking his chair back. The room feels colder now, the space between them charged with something unpredictable. The Sphinx: “Do you know what it feels like, Doc? To have a plan—a purpose—and have every little detail, every moment of doubt eaten away by the overwhelming desire to destroy? It feels better than anything. Better than any gold. Better than any title. Power? That’s all temporary. But destruction… that’s permanent.” His voice turns to a low growl. There’s no longer any calmness in it—only rage. The Sphinx: “You want me to be ‘normal,’ don’t you? To feel something. To be ‘human.’ How cute. But let me ask you this: What’s so special about humanity? All these people—Daron, the fans, the others—what do they all have in common? They’re fragile. And they’ll never understand that I don’t need anyone to care about me. I don’t need love. I don’t need their approval. All I need is the one thing they all fear the most…” He steps closer to the therapist's desk, leaning in, eyes glinting with a wild, untamed madness. The Sphinx whispering: “Oblivion.” The therapist says nothing. The room feels suffocating now, as though the walls themselves are closing in. The Sphinx watches him with a predator’s stare. The Sphinx: “When Daron Smythe and I step into that ring, it won’t be about skill. It won’t be about who’s tougher. It’ll be about something far greater than any of that. It’ll be about destruction. And I’ll break him. Not just physically, Doc. I’ll break him mentally. I'll unravel everything he’s ever believed in. He'll realize too late that I’m not just some ‘nobody’ he can beat.” He takes a step back, his expression shifting in an instant from fury to amusement. The Sphinx: “You see, in my world, there’s only one thing that matters. And that’s control. The rest of you… you're nothing but pawns. You can try to play the game, but you’ll never win. And that’s what makes it so beautiful.” The therapist finally speaks, his voice shaking slightly. Therapist: “Drake, do you understand the consequences of this mindset? The destruction you’re so eager to bring? You’ve been consumed by hate. This isn’t just about wrestling. This is something deeper. Something darker.” The Sphinx’s grin returns, wider, more menacing. The Sphinx: “Oh, I understand, Doc. I understand everything. The only question left is whether you’re ready for me to show you… or if I’ll just keep it all to myself. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone gets the message. You’ll all feel it, in ways you never thought possible.” He steps toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, and turns back one last time. The Sphinx: “Because when the dust settles… and the body count rises… the only thing that’ll be left will be my legacy. And trust me, Doc, it won’t be one you’ll forget.” He leaves, the door slamming behind him with finality. The room is still, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Session Eleven: The Sphinx – "War on All" The session room is eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. The Sphinx, or perhaps it’s Drake Nygma now, is sitting still in the chair, but there’s something wrong with the stillness. His eyes are fixed, unblinking, his hands resting at his sides. It’s like a calm before a storm that everyone can feel—no one can look away from the impending madness. “Drake… How are you feeling today?” He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his lips curl up into something resembling a grin, but it’s jagged, like cracked porcelain. His hands flex, fingers curling into tight fists, before letting them relax again. The air in the room seems to press in on itself. “Feel? Feel what? Feel what, Doc? You think I still care about how I feel? You think I care about any of that petty, human nonsense? Feelings? Weakness. Nothing more. It’s not about feelings anymore. Not for me.” He suddenly stands, his movements swift, his body a tense coil of energy. His gaze hardens, his focus shifting into something darker, something rawer. “Do you see it yet? Can you feel it, Doc? The world is crumbling. Every moment, every breath I take—it’s all building to something more. You think I care about my career? You think I care about titles, championships, the ‘respect’ of the locker room? No. No. I care about chaos. I care about burning everything down.” The Sphinx paces the room, his movements erratic now. There’s a madness in his eyes, an intensity that’s impossible to ignore. “You’ve all been living in this little bubble, haven’t you? Thinking you can play this game. Thinking you can keep things neat, controlled, safe. Well, I’m done with your rules. Done with your structure. Done with your sense of order. The time for order is over. This is war, Doc.” His voice rises, growing with each sentence, his presence overwhelming. “War on everyone. Every single one of you. Men, women, old, young, management, fans, keyboard warriors—no one gets a free pass. I’m done picking and choosing my targets. I’m done with restraint. If you’re breathing, you’re fair game. This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about sending a message. It’s about making sure that when I step into the ring, the world knows that I control it all. No one—NO ONE—escapes my madness.” He leans forward, his eyes locked onto the therapist’s with unnerving intensity. “You think you can hide behind titles? Behind walls of security? Behind your little desks and your little screens? You think you’re untouchable? You’re not. No one is. This world? It’s MY carnival. My playground. And I’m going to make sure you all see the chaos I create in its full, brutal glory.” The Sphinx’s grin turns darker, teeth flashing like a predator. “The ring isn’t the only place where I’m going to make my mark. You think the locker rooms are the only battlegrounds? That the matches are where the true war is fought? No. The real war? It’s on the streets. It’s in your homes. It’s in your hearts, your minds, and your souls. I’ll make sure none of you can sleep at night. I’ll get in your head, your deepest, darkest thoughts, and I’ll make you see what I see. That nothing matters. Nothing but the destruction I bring.” He lets out a twisted laugh, more like the cackle of a man who’s been driven mad rather than any kind of joy. It echoes throughout the room. “And Daron? You think you’ve won, huh? You think you’ve earned that Ultraviolence title? That you’re some untouchable king? You’re a fool. I’ve let you have your little taste of glory, but it’s all coming crashing down, old man. You won’t even see it coming. You’ll be lost, trying to grasp at something that’s already slipping through your fingers. I’m going to tear everything you’ve built apart.” He takes a step back, his expression shifting once more, from rage to something colder, something more calculating. “And the rest of you? Don’t think for a second that I won’t come for you too. I’ll break you. Piece by piece. Not just in the ring, but in your life. I’ll invade your thoughts. Your dreams. I’ll make you fear me.” His eyes gleam with dark satisfaction. “I’ll show you what happens when a man loses his soul. What happens when everything you believe in burns away to ash. You’ll see what happens when you’ve crossed the point of no return. You’ll understand what it means to be truly untouchable... and how unbearable that really is.” He paces again, but this time, there’s a new sense of resolve in his steps, a chilling finality to his words. “This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about proving to all of you that your little system, your precious order... it’s fragile. And when it breaks, you’ll understand why chaos is inevitable. Why this world, this twisted, broken world... needs to be torn apart. And I? I’ll be the one holding the matches.” His smile widens, but there’s nothing playful about it. It’s the smile of a man who’s already seen the world burn and is eager to watch it happen again. “So, let the war begin. Let the madness take hold. And as the smoke rises, remember one thing… You brought this upon yourselves.” He stands still for a moment, his eyes gleaming as if savoring the silence that follows his words. Then, with a final glance at the therapist, he turns and walks toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you. All of you.” The door slams shut, and the room falls back into silence, the weight of his declaration lingering like a storm on the horizon.

The wind howled through the skeleton of the old carnival. Rotting banners flapped in tatters. A carousel moaned as it turned by itself, haunted by a forgotten lullaby warped and slowed by time. Broken clown faces stared blankly from shattered booths. Rusted lights flickered overhead, casting sickly glows over the desecrated funhouse mirrors—each one reflecting a version of madness twisted just slightly off-center. And in the heart of it all, standing atop the wreckage of what once might have been the prize booth—arms outstretched like a conductor summoning an orchestra of screams—stood The Sphinx. Drake Nygma. His coat fluttered like wings in the bitter wind. Red and gold, slashed with oil and blood. His smile was carved in place, though it never reached those eyes—those awful, glittering eyes that saw everything and spared nothing. His face, painted with smears of symbolic war—one half theater, one half slaughterhouse—gleamed under the carnival lights. A guttural laugh scraped its way out of his throat. He clutched a cracked megaphone in one hand, and in the other? A marionette. Dressed just like Eric Herrera. “OHHHHH, ERIC!” The Sphinx cooed into the static megaphone, voice lilting like a lullaby delivered with a razor’s edge. “Eric, Eric, Eric... Look what the cat dragged back from whatever little hole you were playing king in. And now—nowwwww—you think this is still your kingdom?” He turned sharply and drove a boot into the head of a plastic clown. It shattered. A puff of sawdust and something black drifted into the air like ash. He inhaled deeply. “Smells like failure,” he mused, then giggled. “And rotten popcorn.” A flash of rage cracked through him. The megaphone hit the ground with a metallic shriek. His expression darkened to something primal. “This was mine. AWS was mine.” He snarled, pacing now, eyes darting like a jackal’s. “I bled for it. Broke it. Rebuilt it. And you think you can just… waltz in and pretend it stayed frozen in time like some little snowglobe fantasy?” He stopped. Tilted his head. That smile returned—but it was wrong. Too wide. Too certain. “Let me tell you what this place really is, ‘champ.’” His voice dropped to a rasp. A whisper dipped in poison.“It’s not a playground. Not a battlefield. Not a promotion.” He bent down and ran his fingers through the dirt, then held it up—blackened, choked with decay. “It’s a graveyard. One filled with wide-eyed idiots and swaggering buffoons who thought they were stars.” His gaze lifted again. It was pure flame. “And I’m the man who digs the holes.” Another laugh. Louder now. Echoing through the carnival ruins like a war cry in a madhouse.“I put them down, Eric. I carve their legacies into tombstones and plant them like weeds! The roster? HA! The roster is nothing but meat waiting to rot. Fools with microphones. Mannequins playing war. And YOU—YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER NAME TO SCRATCH INTO THE WALLS.” He dragged a knife across one of the funhouse mirrors. It shrieked as glass spidered outward. In the fractured reflection, dozens of versions of The Sphinx stared back, each more monstrous than the last. “Don’t worry, old friend…” he said softly, cradling the Eric puppet like a baby. “We’ll give you a nice little plot. Right between the last idiot who underestimated me and the next one still waiting in gorilla. I’ll even leave flowers.” He stepped forward into the flickering spotlight of a dangling ride, face illuminated in full. “And when the lights go out again—when the last laugh’s been bled out of your lungs—I’ll still be here, laughing for you.” The Sphinx’s eyes glinted. “Because monsters don’t retire, Eric.” A slow, deliberate blink. “We reign.” And somewhere in the distance, the carousel groaned back to life. A wide shot of the ruined carnival. The camera slowly crawls through rusted turnstiles, past scorched food stands, over the twisted bones of bumper cars and fallen rides. Soot-streaked mascots hang limp from nooses of carnival rope. Fireworks, dead and melted, lie in heaps. All is silent—except for the music box waltz echoing faintly in the background. It skips. Suddenly— The camera jerks upward. There he is. The Sphinx. Perched atop the carousel like a prophet of ruin. Head tilted. Arms out like wings. The carousel spins slowly beneath him, metal shrieking with each rotation. Above him, a neon sign flickers violently: WELCOME BACK, ERIC. The letters spark and sizzle until the sign reads simply: WELC _ DEATH. “Ahhh... there he is.” The Sphinx’s voice slithers through the speakers, smooth and venomous. “The Prodigal Puppet has returned.” He hops down. The carousel keeps spinning. Behind him, a billboard shows black-and-white footage of Eric Herrera in his prime—hoisting belts, rallying crowds, giving proud locker room speeches. The Sphinx walks toward it. Snap. He raises a nail gun. BLAM. A spike pierces Eric’s smiling face. “Funny, isn’t it?” he purrs. “The way time erases you. The way it peels off your crown and uses it to choke you. You left thinking this place would wait for you, didn't you? Thought AWS would tuck itself in and whisper bedtime stories until Daddy Eric came back to kiss it goodnight…” He snorts. Wipes a smear of grease across his mouth. “...But the kingdom’s been redecorated, sunshine. And I don’t do bedtime stories. I do eulogies.” The screen flickers again. Images flash: shattered titles. Bloody boots. Faces of former stars—crossed out with red paint. “Everyone wants to be king until they see the corpses it takes to build a throne. But me?” He grins, teeth like knives. “I dance on their bones.” He spins in a slow circle, arms outstretched as the camera pulls back—revealing the surrounding chaos: dozens of AWS logos, torn and burning. Cardboard cutouts of the roster hang like effigies. On each one is a single word: “FORGOTTEN.” “And you, Eric? You’re not the king anymore. You’re just the next to fall. Because AWS doesn’t need a savior. It needs a butcher.” He approaches the camera now, dead-on. His eyes are like fire. His voice softens—uncomfortably intimate. “I don’t want your legacy. I want your bones.” A beat. “I want your name dragged through the dirt until it sounds like a punchline. I want your reflection to cry for help. I want your fans to forget the taste of hope.” He chuckles—low and crawling. “Because when I’m done, the only thing left standing in this graveyard will be me. The last laugh. The final scream. The eternal god of the broken.” A match is struck. He flicks it toward the carousel. Flames explode. Everything ignites. The screen fills with fire and laughter. As the transmission burns out, The Sphinx's final words slice through static: “This isn’t your homecoming, Eric. It’s your burial.” The flames rage behind him. The carousel melts. The effigies collapse. The carnival screams in firelight. But The Sphinx? He sits calmly now. Cross-legged in the center of the chaos, lit by a single flickering spotlight. A tattered children’s book rests in his lap, stained with blood and ash. The cover reads: “The Boy Who Thought Monsters Weren’t Real.” He opens it slowly, reverently, as if performing a sacred rite. His voice softens—silk over steel. He begins to read. “Once upon a time, in a world of lights and lies, there was a little boy who thought monsters only lived under the bed…” He looks up. Smiles wide. But not kind. “He wore a crown. Told stories. Thought himself brave. But he forgot...” He turns the page. The picture shows a cartoon king smiling in a golden ring. “Monsters don’t live under beds.” “They live behind masks.” Another page. The king is surrounded now—dozens of eyes in the dark. Teeth smiling. “He thought if he stood tall, and shouted loud enough, the monsters would run away…” A pause. His eyes burn through the camera. “But monsters don’t run.They wait.” He slowly shuts the book. Then whispers—more to the fire, more to himself, more to the dead: “And when the boy came home…the monster was already there.Wearing his clothes.Sleeping in his bed.Laughing in his mirror.” He gently pats the closed book. “The end.” A long silence. Only the crackle of fire now. Then—his grin widens, his eyes never blink. “Sleep tight, Eric.Don’t let the Sphinx bite.” The screen cuts to black. A final image appears in blood-red text: “AWS BELONGS TO ME.”

Shattered Mirror, Burning World

A Broken Mind: Part Three

The Locket, the Laughter, the Lie

A Broken Mind : Part Two

“AXE ME IF I CARE: The War of Words, Goats, and Weaponized Siblings”

A New Reign: A Rising Tide

A Broken Mind

The Warborne Hunts

[FADE IN] A cold wind howls over a desolate mountain range — jagged cliffs splitting the sky like ancient gods’ broken teeth. Snow whips across the screen in a chaotic blur. The crackle of a storm brews in the distance. And then, him. CRACK. A massive war axe slams into a tree trunk, splitting it down the middle like a sacrifice offered to the old gods. He stands shirtless in the snow. Tyr Dagrsson. 6’6. 270 pounds. Bare-chested in subzero winds like pain is a language he was born speaking. His torso is a patchwork of battle-scars and ritual tattoos — Norse runes inked in thick, black lines over muscle that looks carved from granite. A heavy fur cloak hangs off his shoulders, matted with snow and blood. Not his. Not yet. [VOICEOVER – low, grim, almost reverent] Tyr growls. Just once. It shuts everyone up. [VOICEOVER RETURNS – calmer now, but colder]

Týr Dagrsson – The Warborn BerserkerBirth Name: Týr Dagrsson Alias(es): The Warborn, The Last Raider, The Mountain That Hunts Height: 6’6” Weight: 270 lbs Alignment: Chaotic Evil Background: The Last Son of the NorthTýr Dagrsson was not born into this world screaming. He was born in silence, beneath the frozen sky of a land that no longer exists. His father, Dagrs the Wolf, was a warrior from the old world—one of the last men who believed in strength above all else. A chieftain without a tribe. A killer without mercy. Raised in the heart of a brutal, lawless land, Týr was not given a childhood—he was given trials. His father threw him into the wilderness at age ten, telling him: "Survive, or you were never meant to be my son." When he returned weeks later, covered in the blood of wolves he had killed with his bare hands, his father only nodded. "You live. That is enough." His life was forged in combat. His lessons were written in scars. By sixteen, he had already claimed more lives than he could count. By eighteen, he had broken the strongest man in his father’s camp with a single blow. By twenty-one, he had no more challengers left. He was no longer a son—he was a warlord. But war is never satisfied. And neither was Týr. The Exile & The Path of BloodThe story of the North is always the same: the strong rise, the weak fall, and the wolves turn on each other. Týr’s father, fearing his own son’s strength, tried to have him killed in his sleep. It didn’t work. "You should have been stronger, father." After breaking every bone in his father’s body, Týr left his homeland behind, abandoning the past as nothing but ashes in the wind. He walked the world, seeking new battles, new wars, new tests of his strength. He fought in underground fight pits where men died screaming in the dirt.He shattered bones in no-holds-barred death matches across Europe.He walked into the most brutal wrestling promotions and turned their champions into corpses.For Týr, this world was nothing but a battlefield without rules—and if you could not stand, you did not deserve to live. And when he speaks—which is rare—his words are law. "If you are weak, leave. If you stay, fight. If you fall… I will not mourn you." Fighting Style & Signature MovesTýr does not fight. He crushes. His style is built on brute force, unrelenting pressure, and overwhelming strength. He does not waste motion. He does not play mind games. He does not entertain. He ends you. Signature Moves:“Ragnarök Slam” – A cradle tombstone piledriver (like a more brutal Gonzo Bomb) that looks like it ends careers. “Worldbreaker” – A running lariat so hard it turns opponents inside out.“The Last Raid” – A brutal spinning backfist, often used to knock people out in one hit.“Valhalla’s Call” – A reverse chokeslam facebuster that plants opponents into the mat like a corpse. “The Blood Eagle” (Ultimate Finisher – Used Only in No DQ Matches) – A Torture Rack Backbreaker into a Swinging Powerslam. Once this lands, the match is over. The Allfather's Grip (Chokeslam) Description: With the power of Odin behind him, Tyr grabs his opponent by the throat with one hand and lifts them high into the air, slamming them down with a devastating chokeslam. This move not only demonstrates Tyr's strength but also his dominance, making it clear that he's always in control. Berserker Rage (Double Axe Handle) Description: Tyr channels his inner berserker rage as he jumps off the ropes and delivers a crushing double axe handle to the opponent’s back. The attack is swift, wild, and brutal, akin to a Viking warrior charging into battle without care for consequence. Thor's Thunder (Running Powerslam) Description: A powerhouse move where Tyr lifts his opponent onto his shoulder with ease, then drives them into the mat with a forceful running slam. The sheer power behind this move makes it difficult for opponents to escape, leaving them gasping for air as they’re crushed beneath Tyr’s weight. The Wolf's Howl (Spear to the Corner) Description: Tyr charges full-force at his opponent, driving them into the corner with a devastating spear that leaves them breathless and dazed. The force of the spear is compared to the raw power of a wolf barreling into its prey. After this, Tyr usually has his opponent disoriented and vulnerable for a follow-up attack. Ragnarok (Samoan Drop) Description: Tyr lifts his opponent in a crushing Samoan drop, throwing them down onto the mat with bone-crushing force. The impact feels like the end of the world, as Tyr is ready to end his opponent's career with one mighty slam. Frostbite (Spinning Spinebuster) Description: A modification of the classic spinebuster, Tyr uses his raw power to spin his opponent mid-air before planting them into the mat with a thunderous spinebuster. The spin adds an extra level of brutality, leaving the opponent disoriented after impact. Hallowed Ground (Inverted Atomic Drop into Running Big Boot) Description: Tyr drops his opponent into an inverted atomic drop (opponent’s groin hits his knee), then immediately follows up with a running big boot to their face. The impact of the atomic drop leaves his opponent vulnerable, setting up the boot for a devastating finish. The Raven's Flight (Top Rope Superplex) Description: Tyr climbs to the second or third rope, and despite his massive frame, delivers a superplex that sends both him and his opponent crashing to the mat. The unexpected agility of a man of his size catches his opponents off guard, and the force of the impact shakes the arena. The Viking's Wrath (Choke Slam with a Sit-out Pin) Description: Tyr lifts his opponent by the throat and sends them crashing to the mat with a devastating chokeslam. Rather than simply pinning them, he sits down with his opponent, applying weight onto their body, making it even harder for them to escape or kick out. Helm of the High King (Backbreaker into Double Knee Gutbuster) Description: Tyr drives his opponent’s back into his knee with a backbreaker, then immediately follows with a double knee gutbuster to drive all the air out of their lungs. The combo is a brutal show of Tyr’s ability to control his opponent’s body. Counters and Adaptive Moves:The Wall of Asgard (Counter to a Springboard Move or Top-Rope Attack) Description: If an opponent attempts a springboard move or top-rope attack, Tyr steps forward, arms outstretched, and uses his body to block and catch them mid-air. He then slams them back down with a backbreaker or a throw, displaying his dominance as a nearly indestructible force. Hammer of the Gods (Counter to a Suplex or Powerbomb) Description: When an opponent attempts to lift him for a suplex or powerbomb, Tyr blocks the move and immediately reverses the position by flipping them over into a standing suplex position, slamming them down with immense power. It’s a classic counter, but Tyr’s size makes it even more brutal. Warden's Grip (Submission Counter into a Chokehold) Description: If his opponent attempts a submission or holds his arms, Tyr can break free with sheer strength and quickly lock them into a devastating chokehold. Using his arms as leverage, he can subdue his opponent with overwhelming strength and endurance until they tap or pass out. Viking Execution (Counter to a Running Move into a Pumphandle Drop) Description: When an opponent attempts a running strike or clothesline, Tyr catches them in midair, lifts them into a pumphandle position, then drops them onto their face with a violent twist. The suddenness of this move makes it difficult to avoid and sets the stage for his other finishers. Finishing Moves:Fury of the North (Avalanche Fallaway Slam) Description: Tyr takes his opponent up to the top rope and slams them down with a massive fallaway slam, causing the opponent to crash with explosive force. This move is both intimidating and impressive, as Tyr makes it look effortless to throw opponents from that height. It's a statement of power and a potential game-ender. Jotun’s Judgment (Torture Rack into Spinning Torture Rack Slam) Description: Tyr traps his opponent in a torture rack hold, stretching their body out before spinning them around and slamming them to the mat with a vicious spinning slam. The move combines power and precision, leaving his opponents disoriented and defeated. Valhalla’s Judgment (Spear Followed by the Ragnarok Slam) Description: Tyr charges across the ring with a devastating spear that sends the opponent crashing into the corner. After the impact, he immediately pulls them out and delivers the Ragnarok Slam — a crushing powerbomb that leaves the opponent helpless, unable to escape the wrath of his moves. The Viking King (Corkscrew Powerbomb into Pinfall) Description: Tyr lifts his opponent into a corkscrew powerbomb, spinning them mid-air as he slams them with devastating force. He holds onto them for a pin, showing his ability to take control of any situation and force his opponent to submit to his power. Signature War Tactics:Blood of the Beast (Viking Endurance Combo) Description: Tyr starts by pummeling his opponent with unrelenting punches, followed by knee strikes to the ribs, and finally finishing with a brutal DDT. The combo mirrors the ferocity of a Viking berserker, who continues to fight and take punishment without giving up. This move is about wearing the opponent down. Valkyrie’s Descent (Backslide into Torture Rack) Description: Tyr catches an opponent trying to escape or perform a quick roll-up, flipping them into a backslide position, but instead of going for the pin, he transitions directly into a torture rack, using his immense power to submit them or break them down. Basic Moves Viking Hammer (Powerful Forearm Smash) Thunderstrike (Big Boot) Odin's Wrath (Running Knee Strike) Description: Tyr sprints across the ring and delivers a devastating running knee to the opponent’s midsection, following it up with a series of brutal knees to the face or chest. This move not only adds speed to his power but also disorients and weakens the opponent for the bigger moves to come. Viking Suplex (Snap Suplex) Description: Tyr lifts his opponent in a snap suplex, throwing them backward in one fluid motion. The raw power of this suplex shows Tyr’s strength as he flips them with ease. The impact is thunderous, leaving his opponents reeling after they crash to the mat. Drakkar Drop (Elevated Scoop Slam) Description: Tyr lifts his opponent high above his head like he's preparing to throw them into the water like a Drakkar (Viking longship). After holding them for a moment, he slams them down with immense force, the drop echoing throughout the arena. The way he holds them in the air showcases his absolute strength. Valkyrie's Call (Viking Uppercut) Description: A hard, clean uppercut from Tyr, delivered with so much force that it feels as though it could send opponents flying. His body weight and strength add to the sheer impact of this punch, a move designed to knock the wind out of anyone standing in his way. Character PsychologyThe Enforcer – If Drake Nygma is the mind, Týr is the hammer. When Hliðskjálf wants to send a message, Týr delivers it. The Silent Death – He does not waste words. When he speaks, it’s short, sharp, and final. And you listen. The Measure of Strength – If you want to prove yourself in Hliðskjálf, you fight Týr. And most do not survive. No Respect for the Weak – If you hesitate, he will break you. If you doubt, he will end you. If you show weakness, he will forget your name. Týr Dagrsson does not want gold. He does not need titles. All he wants is war.

The Asylum Wrestling Society knew thunder. It had hosted chaos incarnate—beasts in boots, demigods of carnage, and feral royalty with nothing but blood on their breath. But when the lights dimmed that night, and fog rolled across the ramp like a creeping omen, even the crowd’s roar stilled—held captive by a silence too unnatural for spectacle. A single spotlight split the fog. And there he stood. Orphius Marius. The Silent Tempest. Six-foot-four and carved from stillness itself. He did not roar. He did not gesture. He walked. Each step down the ramp echoed like distant thunder in a dying cathedral. A tailored high-collared coat flared behind him, lined in silver like mourning trim. Hair white as salt. Eyes—no, eye—one hidden beneath a crescent of porcelain mask, the other sharp, cold, and unsparing. Pale and precise, as though violence had hand-sculpted him in a moment of regret. The crowd whispered as he passed. No music. No theatrics. Just the shivering hush of a man who had drowned every part of himself except the storm. He stepped into the ring like a ghost claiming land. And then— A voice, disembodied and mocking, crackled through the speakers. “Who the hell is this marble statue? You mute, pretty boy?” The lights shifted. From the shadows emerged Harbinger Knox, the Society’s self-crowned executioner—eight-time belt holder, face like a brick wall with opinions, and a mouth that had broken more spirits than bodies. Knox laughed, pacing the apron like a wolf scenting boredom. “I don’t fight mannequins, sweetheart. Go back to your art gallery.” Silence. Orphius slowly unbuttoned his coat. Folded it. Placed it, precise, on the corner post. Still, no words. Knox rolled his eyes. “This is embarrassing. I’m gonna break you so bad you start talking just to beg.” The bell rang. Knox lunged. Feral. Fast. Orphius didn’t move. Not until Knox was inches away. Then— A pivot. A twist of wrist. A whipcrack of velocity. Knox was on the mat before he understood what part of him had been struck. The crowd exploded. The next minute was artistry and horror: strikes like surgical punishments, footwork that danced with ghost logic, a flurry of movement so quiet it made the screams seem foreign. Knox tried. He bled. He bellowed. Orphius didn’t blink. The finishing blow was a modified crucifix driver—Orphius lifted him like nothing, inverted his weight with mathematical disdain, and drove him spine-first into silence. The crowd didn’t cheer. They watched. As Orphius rose—unbothered, unmarked—he turned his lone, visible eye to the camera. And for the first time, his lips moved. Just two words. Clear. Cold. “I remember.” Then he left, coat over arm, disappearing into the fog again—like the storm had passed through, but only just begun to pull the world into its path.

The ring is not a battlefield. It is not a proving ground. It is not a stage for theatrics, where bravado drips from the tongues of men who do not understand the weight of war. It is a tide. A shifting, relentless force that carries the weak into the abyss and leaves only the worthy standing on its shores. Orphius Marius stands on that shore now, fresh from victory over Mason Hurst. The echoes of that battle still ripple through the waters of AWS, but he does not look back. Hurst was an obstacle. Now removed. The path is clear. Roger Williams. Mayhem. Orphius does not react to the name with emotion. It is a fact, a piece of the puzzle, another force to be dismantled. There is no question of if, only when. The champion prides himself on destruction. A history written in combat, blood, and submission. A soldier turned mercenary, a man who thrives in the chaos he creates. He believes himself to be war personified. But Roger Williams and Orphius Marius are not the same. Roger’s war is loud. It is the crack of a gunshot, the roar of a battlefield, the breaking of bones beneath deliberate hands. His violence is honed from experience, shaped by discipline, refined through years of war, cage fights, and street brawls. He is a force bred for combat, shaped to break men down, to make them yield. He is the very essence of calculated aggression, sharpened through survival. Orphius does not fight for survival. He fights for inevitability. Belief is for those who seek comfort. Orphius knows. He knows that war is not loud. War does not scream. It does not beat its chest and roar to the heavens. War is precise. Cold. Absolute. It moves in silence until the moment it strikes, and then there is only devastation. The Silent Tempest. Roger Williams will step into the tide. He will bring his violence, his submissions, his strategies forged in the fires of past battles. He will believe, for a time, that he controls the chaos. And then the waters will rise. Mayhem thrives in the art of combat, in the clash of bodies and the breaking of wills. He relishes the struggle, the defiance in his opponent’s eyes before he takes it away. He takes pleasure in the act of domination, in the destruction of another’s resolve. Orphius does not relish. He does not seek satisfaction. The drowning tide does not revel in the gasps of its victims. It does not celebrate. It simply comes, eroding, dismantling, swallowing. And when it recedes, what remains is unrecognizable. Roger Williams will fight. And then he will fall. Not because Orphius is stronger. Not because he is faster. Not because he is more ruthless. Because it is inevitable. The ocean does not rage. It does not posture. It does not roar. It simply drowns. And Orphius Marius is the tide. Roger Williams. Mayhem. Orphius does not react to the name with emotion. It is a fact, a piece of the puzzle, another force to be dismantled. There is no question of if, only when. Strength and weakness. Two sides of the same coin, indistinguishable until pressure is applied. Roger Williams is strong. This is not up for debate. His history dictates it—military discipline, the refinement of violence through years of training, through conflict. He has fought in places where a single mistake is death, where mercy is weakness, where the ability to endure is what separates the victor from the forgotten. His body, hardened through combat. His mind sharpened like a blade. But strength, in itself, is not enough. Not against inevitability. Orphius Marius considers the champion with the detached interest of an architect studying a fault line. A foundation built upon destruction, honed for domination, but ultimately flawed. Roger’s strength is that he thrives in the fight. He enjoys it. He seeks it. He is at his best when standing toe-to-toe with another warrior, exchanging blows, outlasting, overwhelming. That is his weakness. Roger Williams is war in motion, but war demands engagement. It demands a battlefield, an opponent willing to trade, to stand and be measured. His style, his history, his very nature relies on the belief that the struggle is what matters most. That victory is taken through endurance, through breaking another’s will before his own shatters. Orphius does not engage. He does not stand and trade. He does not seek to outlast. He is the storm, the wave that pulls the ground from beneath his opponent’s feet before they realize they are drowning. Roger needs the battlefield. Orphius is the tide. This is where the champion will break. Not from lack of strength, not from lack of skill, but from misunderstanding. From thinking this will be a war. It will not be. Wars have battles, fronts, clashes of will and attrition. This will be none of those things. This will be an erasure. A drowning. But Roger is not without weapons. His body is a weapon, his technique honed. His discipline is not a show but a truth. He is not an arrogant man. He is not reckless. He is intelligent, methodical. He will not enter blindly. He will prepare. He will study. He will attempt to anticipate the tide. But the ocean does not move for men. It does not answer the question of preparation. It does not grant reprieves. It does not fight. It consumes. Roger Williams is strong. But Orphius Marius is inevitable. Fan Reactions to Roger Williams vs. Orphius Marius – AWS Assault Championship Match 🔥 Roger Williams Fans (Mayhem Loyalists)@WrestleTactics99: Roger has seen real war. Orphius thinks he IS war. One of them is about to get humbled, and it ain’t the champ. @TexasMayhemArmy: Roger Williams is a machine. He’s built for this. He doesn’t need theatrics or some “force of nature” nonsense. He just breaks people. @AWSRealTalk: Orphius is scary, but Roger fights monsters for breakfast. He’s been in trenches, fought in cages, walked through hell. Orphius is about to get a reality check. @MayhemForever: Roger wins because he thrives in combat. The longer the match goes, the more he owns you. Orphius isn’t ready for that kind of grind. @WrestlingDad74: Y’all acting like some dude quoting poetry and wearing ocean-themed gear is gonna take down a certified killer? Be serious. 🌊 Orphius Marius Fans (The Tide)@DeepWaters99: Mayhem fans don’t get it. You can’t prepare for a storm. Roger is a trained warrior, sure, but Orphius is inevitability itself. He drowns you before you know you’re sinking. @AtlanteanWrath: Orphius isn’t walking into a fight. He’s executing a plan. Roger thrives on struggle. Orphius doesn’t struggle. He just ends things. @SilentStormFan: Roger’s problem is he thinks this is a fight. Orphius doesn’t fight. He unmakes. There’s a difference. @AWSDarkHorse: Orphius took down Mason Hurst like he was a non-factor. He’s cold, calculating, and patient. Roger’s toughest opponent yet. @TheTideRises: This isn’t a war. This is a flood. Roger can’t outlast what he doesn’t understand. 🥶 Neutral Reactions (General AWS Fans)@WrestlingInsider: This might be the most unique clash of styles in AWS history. Pure violence vs. cold inevitability. @HeelHeatCentral: Both these guys are scary in their own way. Mayhem is relentless brutality. Orphius is surgical destruction. It’s gonna be a bloodbath. @AWSMetaWatch: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an indifferent force of nature? We’re about to find out. @MainEventHype: Roger might be the most dangerous man Orphius has ever fought. Orphius might be the most unreadable opponent Roger has ever faced. This could go either way. @KayfabeLives: We’ve seen monsters, we’ve seen technicians, we’ve seen warriors. But Orphius? He’s something different. And that makes this unpredictable. AWS Assault Championship Match: Roger Williams (c) vs. Orphius MariusA War of Attrition vs. A Force of NatureThe world is watching. The wrestling community—fans, analysts, and veterans alike—has turned its eyes toward AWS. What was once just a title defense has become something bigger, something mythic. Roger Williams versus Orphius Marius is not just a match. It is a clash of philosophies, of existence itself. It is war against the tide. The Combatant: Roger Williams – The Man, The Warrior, The Storm in FleshRoger Williams does not waver. He has walked through fire, bathed in combat, and emerged sharper, stronger, colder. He does not believe in mercy because mercy does not exist where he comes from. His is a world of brutality, of technique honed through the cracking of bones, the stretch of ligaments, the submission of those who dare to stand before him. "Roger Williams is a machine. He doesn’t fight to prove something. He fights because destruction is all he’s ever known." "You don’t stop Mayhem. You survive it, if you’re lucky." The champion thrives in war. He invites the grind, the attrition, the struggle. Where lesser men break, he thrives. Every limb he twists, every back he bends, every opponent he forces into submission is another name added to his list of conquered warriors. His technique is precise. His power is controlled. He does not waste movement. "Roger Williams is a throwback to an era where wrestling wasn’t about spectacle—it was about pain. He doesn’t sell tickets. He sells suffering." The Force: Orphius Marius – The Tide, The Unseen Dread, The Silent TempestThere is no celebration in the movements of Orphius Marius. No joy, no satisfaction. He does not seek validation or glory. He simply moves forward, one step after another, as though following a blueprint only he can see. Orphius does not engage in battle. He erases. He dismantles. His strategy is not one of war, but inevitability. "Orphius is not a wrestler. He’s not even a fighter. He’s a force of nature. You don’t pin Orphius Marius. You survive him, if the ocean allows it." "He doesn’t need to taunt. He doesn’t need to yell. The scariest thing about him is that he already knows how this match ends." Unlike Roger, Orphius does not revel in the challenge. He does not need the battlefield. He controls it. The Silent Tempest does not declare war. He arrives, and by the time you understand what is happening, it is already too late. "Roger fights to win. Orphius moves because winning was already decided. The match itself is just the space in between." The World Reacts: A Collision of Myth and RealityThis match is being studied, dissected, broken down into pieces. Historians compare it to legendary bouts of endurance and strategy. Movie directors describe it in the language of film—Roger Williams as the hardened war veteran, marching into the fight of his life, while Orphius Marius is the slow, inevitable dread of a force beyond comprehension. "This isn’t just wrestling. It’s something else. Roger Williams is like the last stand of an empire. And Orphius? He’s the sea, coming to claim it." "If Roger is the general leading his army into a battle he cannot afford to lose, then Orphius is the hand that erases history itself." The Collision: What Happens When War Meets the Abyss?What happens when an unstoppable warrior, trained for war, faces an opponent that does not engage in battle but rather consumes? Roger Williams is not a fool. He will fight like a man possessed, pushing his body past its limits, using every ounce of strength and experience he possesses. He will come prepared. He will bring war. But war means nothing to the tide. The ocean does not fight. It does not struggle. It simply drowns. And soon, the world will know which force is greater. Orphius turns to face the camera, his eyes cold and calculating, unrelenting force of will residing in his eyes. “Surface Dweller Roger Williams, the tide has chosen you as its next target. You will fight. You will struggle. You will fall just as Mason Hurst did. Your reign will come to an end at my hand, this is inevitable. I am inevitable. Do not make mistake this for mindless destruction, this is calculated, every variable has been accounted for” A deafening crescendo of a wave crashing on the shore echoes as Orphius issues his final statement. “The results are in, in 9 out of 10 simulations you lose, your championship reign ends.” Orphius casts one final look into the camera, then simply vanishes as if he had never been there at all, a whisper breached into the void. “My story has just begun, this is only the first chapter”

A dimly lit arena. The camera pans over the crowd, hyped for the match ahead. But before the roar of the fans rises, the lights flicker and dim. A heavy, ominous hum fills the air, as if the arena itself is reacting to something far deeper and far older than anything the surface world has known. Suddenly, the large screen above the ring flickers to life. The image slowly swirls into a dark, deep blue, like the depths of the ocean. A soft, almost imperceptible ripple begins, growing into waves crashing against jagged rocks, the thundering sound filling the arena. The waves fall silent as a voice, cold and commanding, breaks through the silence—Orphius Marius's voice. Orphius Marius (V.O.): "The surface... a land ravaged by its own greed. The land of fragile creatures who think themselves gods. You wander the earth, blind to the deep truths, cutting away at the very roots of life. You poison the oceans with your arrogance, blind to the storms you’ve invited. But you... have no idea what you’ve unleashed." The camera cuts to a close-up of Orphius, standing alone in a shadowed corner backstage. His form is tall, imposing, clad in the remnants of ancient Atlantean armor, his gauntlet gleaming faintly with an otherworldly glow. His cold, steely gaze locks with the camera. His voice, colder than the deepest trenches of the ocean, echoes as he steps forward. Orphius Marius: "You foolish surface dwellers... you are nothing more than ants scurrying over the bones of the Earth. You drain the life from the waters, you pollute the skies, and you burn what you cannot understand. You think your strength is your weapon? You think your flesh and blood can endure what you’ve set in motion? You are wrong." As he speaks, the camera shifts to shots of ancient Atlantean ruins—decaying pillars beneath the ocean, sunken cities lost to time, the forgotten remnants of a civilization that once thrived before the oceans were poisoned by the surface world. A storm brews over the horizon, dark clouds swirling ominously. The voice of Orphius continues. Orphius Marius (V.O.): "You have awakened the wrath of the ocean. A wrath that will never be sated. Your civilization, so bloated with self-importance, has not only awakened the past—it has summoned the ocean's fury. I am its harbinger. The storm you feel is nothing compared to the chaos you are about to endure." Cut to a montage of oceanic warfare. Atlantean warriors, warriors whose power was built into their very bones, clashing against armies of surface dwellers. The screen flashes to an image of Orphius himself, standing tall, his silver gauntlet shining as he wields the strength of the ocean itself. With each strike, the surface dwellers are thrown into the abyss, crushed beneath his relentless power. Orphius Marius (V.O.): "The ocean is eternal. Your kingdoms rise and fall like sandcastles, but the sea endures. I am its chosen, its consequence, the direct reckoning for the harm you’ve inflicted upon this planet. You may think you can fight... you may think you stand a chance against me. But you are wrong." The camera zooms in on Orphius’s cold, emotionless face. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice quieter now, more chilling. Orphius Marius: "I am the culmination of your actions. The cold hand of vengeance. Your men, your women, your leaders—they are all the same in my eyes: weak, blind, and inferior. You are nothing but the last breath of a dying civilization. The ocean will swallow you whole." The scene flickers back to the arena as the lights flash once again. The roaring sound of the waves crashing intensifies, and suddenly, the screen reveals images of the ocean breaking through the cityscape—like a force of nature reclaiming what was once taken. The tension builds. Orphius Marius (V.O.): "You thought you could conquer the sea. You thought you could tame it. But the sea is no beast to be tamed—it is a force to be feared. Watch what I do to your champion, to Mason Hurst. You won’t doubt me after….” The screen fades to black, leaving only the sound of a deep, reverberating oceanic roar. Then, in a stark, cold font, the words slowly appear on screen: The roar of the crowd begins to rise as the camera cuts back to Orphius, standing tall in the shadows. His silver gauntlet gleams in the dim light, his eyes piercing the camera with the same icy calmness that has sent so many before him to their doom. Orphius Marius: "When I step into that ring, I will show you the true meaning of the ocean’s fury. I will crush your pride. I will shatter your resolve. And when I stand over your broken body, you will understand... you never stood a chance. The ocean does not lose. The ocean wins... every time." The screen fades to black once more, leaving only the eerie sound of the ocean’s eternal roar, as the anticipation builds for the epic clash between the surface world’s strength and the ocean's unstoppable vengeance.

"The Silent Storm: Countering the Fury"

"The Sphinx & The Silent Tempest: A Masterpiece of Mayhem"

Mind Over Muscle

The Sphinx & Orphius Interview

Tag Team Bio: The Dissonant ForcesMembers: "The Sphinx" Drake Nygma (6’5”, / 89.1 kg) – Unpredictable, theatrical, and unhinged. A master of mind games and chaos. "The Silent Tempest" Orphius Marius (6’3”, 240 lbs) – Cold, calculated, and poetic. A silent force of destruction with an enigmatic presence. Alignment: Heel Combined Weight: 329.1Tag Team Entrance DescriptionThe lights in the arena flicker erratically before plunging into darkness. A slow, eerie hum builds as the titantron displays cryptic symbols and shifting riddles. The silence is shattered by the distorted sound of a storm rolling in, mixed with unsettling laughter that echoes throughout the arena.A dim spotlight illuminates the entrance ramp, revealing Orphius Marius, standing motionless, his head slightly bowed, his face unreadable. Next to him, Drake Nygma crouches low, a twisted grin on his face as he tilts his head, scanning the crowd with eerie intensity. As the music—an ominous blend of orchestral dread and electronic dissonance—reaches its peak, Drake suddenly lurches forward, staggering and twisting like a marionette cut loose, while Orphius walks methodically behind him, exuding cold authority. Together, they move toward the ring—one a storm held in eerie control, the other chaos barely contained. Upon reaching the ring, Orphius steps through the ropes with composed precision, while Drake slides under, slithering like a serpent before perching himself in a corner, rocking slightly as if waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The air is heavy with unease as the arena drowns in a mix of anticipation and dread. Tag Team Finishing Moves"Dissonance Theory" – Orphius lifts the opponent into a Wheelbarrow Position, only for Drake to spring forward and catch them with a Rolling Cutter (The Sphinx’s Judgment) in mid-air, driving their head into the mat with brutal impact. "The Grand Collapse" – Orphius locks the opponent in an Elevated Guillotine Choke, hoisting them just off the mat. As they struggle, Drake charges in with a Dropkick, sending the opponent crashing to the canvas while still locked in Orphius’s grip "The Silent Riddle" – Orphius delivers a Thunderous Spinebuster, keeping the opponent grounded just long enough for Drake to hit a Diving Senton Bomb, crushing them under the weight of chaos and precision combined. Tag Team DynamicThe Dissonant Forces are a study in unsettling contrasts—Orphius, the methodical storm, and Drake, the chaotic riddle. Together, they create an aura of unpredictability and dread, using mind games, psychological warfare, and ruthless efficiency to dismantle their opponents. Whether through cryptic warnings or eerie silence, their presence alone is enough to unnerve even the toughest of adversaries.With madness and method entwined, the only certainty in facing the Dissonant Forces... is destruction.

The Tempest and The Sphinx

The Game Begins

The Sphinx