A Drake Nygma Cinematic Production

Part One: No More Light

Look at this tableau of shiny, bright and sparkling buildings, each one using an excess of energy. Look at how selfish they are, bathing in the warmth of so much lighting, so much heat and electricity. As if they and they alone have a right to be warm, to be ‘protected’ to be ‘loved.’ to be ‘safe’ inside their ivory towers, far from harm or so they foolishly believe. The grand deception their mind allows them to believe.

That deception will only insulate their minds so far, and will only convince them of their safety for a brief time.

When that time comes to an end, they’ll see how the lie they believed made them vulnerable, made them weak. 

In. Out. The exhalation of breath served as an instinctively performed gesture, the sensation of breath filing his lungs soothing the bone deep need for constant movement. Vigilance was his calling card, as was the inability to rest, the lack of rest awakening the ravenous hunger that was uncoiling in his veins, like a serpent coming back to life.

Human history is filled with revisionist events, crafting themselves as the heroes. Twisting events, words, reality to make themselves appear heroic. 

In other words they’ve chosen to lie. 

The time for lies is over, no more will they be able to employ that cloak and dagger as they skulk around in the shadows, perpetrating selfish acts without even thinking about the consequences.

That is what makes me different from them. Yes I’ve committed horrifying acts, I own this and make it clear that I know who I am. Do you know what I’ve learned from reading countless stories? From the studying of the so-called ‘literature’ written by human hands, those rare few souls who believe they and they alone can shine a light on all of human history, glossing over the events they wish to deny, wish to pretend never happened.

I’ve learned that each of those stories are works of fiction, propaganda meant to entertain the smallest of us, the children. Gone are the days where the writers tell the truth, expose the darkness of human history. 

Gentle breaths drifted through the air. Puffs of smoke like mist danced lazily as though the breath had become sentient. 

A melodic voice layered with charisma, with a musical sounding accent began to speak, the narrator opting to reveal themselves in the present moment.

The Sphinx: “So it seems fate has chosen to allow me this chance to speak again. To address the growing flaws present within the human race. I’ve watched for countless ages, seen how humanity has positioned themselves as the eminent race, the unquestioned ruler of this globe. It’s been truly adorable watching them all scramble about like ants, like the tiny creatures they truly are.”

The Sphinx paused, sarcastic laughter pouring out from between his lips, laughter that sounded like a pale imitation of true and genuine laughter.

The Sphinx: “Dollia tells me that there are worthy humans living on this planet. Humans of such fierce intellect, such immense strength that I should value them. That I should consider them worthy of admiration. To that I say where are these fiercely intellectual humans, where are these strong souls? I do not see anyone on my level at present. The closest I’ve had to a true challenge has been Daron Smythe.”

The Sphinx shook his head, an amused smirk layered with savage glee shone at the memory of the man known as Daron Smythe, a man who had pushed him, who had given him a good fight, the very thing he craved above all else.

I’ll extinguish that light. Make them see what it's like to live in a world without power, a world without mercy, a world in unending darkness, there will be no more light. This we promise you.

Part Two: A matter of honour and respect

The Sphinx gazed upon his newly captured AWS heavyweight championship, a physical reminder of what he’d just now accomplished. The belt itself was a prize secondary only to the effort he’d poured into winning it. This hunt had proven satisfying, in one night he’d conquered both Summer Rayne and Ethan Murphy.

Conquered and not gotten rid of, they’d earned his respect in the midst of the match. His face was set in a tight and quietly intense expression.

Pulse racing, the thrill of battle humming in his veins, The Sphinx began to speak in a gravelly tone layered with a new respect, a sense of honour present in his tone of voice.

The Sphinx: “Summer Rayne. Ethan Murphy. Full credit to you both. You pushed us further than we even thought possible. You forced us to tap into more of our killer instinct, as a result our match was far more compelling than had been expected. The Sphinx sees and acknowledges you both as worthy foes.”

 The Sphinx took a pause here, his expression open and genuine. His sense of honour demanded that he acknowledge both Summer and Ethan as worthy foes. His sense of honour had been a part of who he was since his waking. An ancient thing that was growing less and less present in this modern world.

The Sphinx: “You see this championship I now wield? It’s a symbol of our ancient might. A symbol of the mysterious capabilities of The Sphinx. You’ve now seen but a glimpse of what I can do. Of what we can do. There are very few lines we won’t cross to retain this title. In just one year, our debut year, we've won both the Global Championship and now the Asylum Heavyweight Championship. We have a question for all of you, all of you who doubted us. DO YOU DOUBT US NOW!”

The Sphinx raised the Asylum heavyweight championship high, his expression beyond angry, his eyes narrow, his lips set in a darkening scowl, his thunderous voice shaking the air as his statement echoed through the air, his anger growing, a dark and feral thing that was animalistic in nature.

Dollia appeared from the shadows, her expression soft as she gazed upon the enraged form of her client, a rage like this she hadn’t seen before. This rage would tell her that being doubted, being seen as a non threat had evoked a deep seated rage swirling deep inside the veins of The Sphinx.

Pressing a hand to his shoulder she began to speak.

Dollia Trypp: “Such intense and elemental anger you display. Is this anger coming from you or Drake? This being doubted seems wholly personal for you. It’s almost like a switch has been flipped, triggering a volcanic rage that had been bubbling up beneath the surface unseen for countless years. Tell me what you are thinking.”

Her words were whisper soft as she looked at him awaiting a reply.

Part Three: An anger that’s lived in our veins always

There’s something about the holiday season that brings a smile to our face. Almost as though there’s a sense of hope about it. At least this is what Dollia tells us. Maybe she’s right, maybe she’s wrong. A hum of ominous energy crackled through the air as The Sphinx began to speak.

The Sphinx: “The answer to that question is not as simple as coming from one or the other. This rage you see comes from both of us, these feelings are shared by both Drake and myself. I am ascendant. Yes, I am in control. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win. To send a message. My fury, the fury I share with Drake Nygma is unpredictable like a sleeping beast, once provoked…. The results are catastrophic.”

Dollia simply nodded, her expression soft and understanding, her empathy making her sensitive to the rage pulsating off The Sphinx.

Dollia Trypp: “When will it ever be enough? When will you set your anger to the side? Will there come a time when you can let your anger fade away into the void? Tell me you’ll rid yourself of those dark emotions. Please.”

The Sphinx shook his head, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks. The look in his eyes was an intense glimmer of lethal fury. A fury that came about as easy as breathing. 

The Sphinx: “Never. It will never be enough. I won’t ever set it to the side. You see, the truth is I hate this mortal world. I hate those who inhabit it. These dark emotions as you call them are what kept us strong, are what kept us forging ahead. These dark emotions allowed us to survive. Allowed to become strong. A strength that is like ice, solid and unbreakable. More than once throughout our lives we’ve been mocked, we’ve been treated as lesser, like we aren’t even worth consideration. And now we…. I…. we are born to the fight, for every breath, for every moment. It's in our blood, we can’t stop fighting.”

Dollia had a quiet sympathetic look in her eyes, glimpses of times when The Sphinx had been mocked, when Drake had been mocked, when they had been laughed at, treated with scorn simply because they didn’t fit into the preconceived notions of what was considered ‘right’ or ‘acceptable.’ In other words she could see how they both had been mocked for their ‘neurodivergence, for how their mind operated in ways that didn’t fit into any socially acceptable ways.

Behind her eyes she could see flickers of moments in time where they’d been dismissed and tossed aside, the loathing she felt made her heart race as she viewed the memories that had allowed The Sphinx’s aggression to rise. 

Dollia Trypp: “So you’ve been shown scorn before and that scorn awoke an anger older than this world. This is why you hate humanity, because they’ve hurt you both. A hurt that you both are determined to give to everyone else. An eye for an eye, this is what motivates you to act as you do.”

A simple nod came from The Sphinx by way of an answer.

The Sphinx: Correct. Your analytic skills are impressive. An eye for an eye is exactly what drives us. A need to punish everyone for the sins of a few. This is the justice we offer. I care none for the whining of selfish mortals, they brought this on themselves. This is karma, delivered by the hand of The Sphinx.”

Dollia stood speechless, sympathetic and yet more than a little sad at how The Sphinx planned to punish everyone for the sins of a few. Deep down she knew that The Sphinx was using his anger, his icy impassivity to cover for how he’d been hurt over and over, a mask designed to showcase his terrifying strength, to showcase his desire to wreck everyone and leave them broken beneath his fist.

Part Four: We all make our own monsters

The Sphinx sat astride a hard backed chair, the Asylum Heavyweight Championship draped over his shoulder. His expression was void of emotion, an icy mask that betrayed nothing save the haunting anger that caused his jaw to tighten, the sharp angles of his jaw standing out even more than it had before.

At his side stood Dollia, her expression soft a stark contrast to the utter fury that filled The Sphinx’s veins.

The Sphinx: “We all create our own monsters. This world created me. This world brought me to life. Every action I do, every action I take is on your hands, the blood I spill, the bodies I break, it’s all on YOU!.”

The Sphinx’s lips turned in a scowl, a cold gleam in his eyes.

The Sphinx: “Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.For I am I: ergo, the truth of myself; my own sphinx, conflict, chaos, vortex—asymmetric to all rhythms, oblique to all paths. I am the prism between black and white: mine own unison in duality.”

A hum of ethereal energy surged through the air as The Sphinx spoke again.

The Sphinx: “A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of laughter more terrible than any sadness-a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.”

A gasp broke into the air as Dollia reacted instinctively, her senses picking up on the intensity of her client.

The Sphinx: “The problem of Eternity, of which the face of the Sphinx speaks, takes us into the realm of the impossible. Even the problem of Time is simple in comparison with the problem of Eternity.I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.”

The Sphinx let a bright booming dangerous laugh free as a series of voiceovers began to play.

DARON SMYTHE Voiceover: "Let’s start with Ethan Murphy. The guy’s hungry—when you’ve been at the top for 177 days, it’s hard to swallow being on the outside looking in. Ethan’s going to bring everything he has to get that title back, and I respect that. But respect doesn’t win matches. Then there’s Drake Nygma. Let me tell you something, Bryce—Drake Nygma might be the toughest opponent I’ve faced since I returned to this business. Tougher than Cory Chevelle. Tougher than Cyrus Rinaldi in the UWL. The guy’s a wildcard, unpredictable, dangerous. But I’ve beaten tough before, and I’ll do it again."

DARON SMYTHE VOICEOVER: "Not at all. Whoever’s holding that title when the time comes, they’re going to learn the same thing Ace Sky did, the same thing Jayden Riley did, and the same thing everyone else who’s ever faced me learns—I’m the real deal. I’m not here to test the waters; I’m here to test myself against the best. Whether it’s Summer Rayne, Ethan Murphy, or Drake Nygma holding that gold, they’re going to find out why I’m not just #1 by name—I’m #1 by skill, by results, and by destiny."

DARON SMYTHE VOICEOVER: "Simple, Bryce. People know talent when they see it. The fans know it, the wrestlers in that locker room know it, and the promoters sure as hell know it. I’m money. I’m box office. When you see Daron Smythe on the marquee, you know you’re getting the best in the business. And that’s why I keep getting these opportunities—because I deliver every single time."

The Sphinx’s laughter rang out as he spoke one final time.

The Sphinx: “You can make your cute little comments all you want, despite the respect I have for you both as competitors, you are out here making cute little speeches, I’m out here dropping nukes. Come Reindeer Games, you’ll come to see that The Sphinx is more than a moniker, is more than a gimmick. You’ll learn that The Sphinx is what happens when you push someone far enough that they become a monster to fight other monsters. Look into my eyes and you’ll see every flaw, every horrible action you’ve ever taken in your life. You’ll come face to face with every dark deed you’ve tried to hide.”

The promo came to an end as the words ‘No more hiding, face the truth of who you are’ lingered on screen.

A single light bulb dangles from a frayed, cloth-wrapped cord, swaying slightly in the still air of the room. Its soft, yellow glow creates sharp contrasts, casting deep, flickering shadows against the bare wooden walls. The bulb’s light reflects faintly on the surface of a worn wooden table below, its grain marked by years of scratches and stains, each telling a story of its own. A lone chair, equally weathered, stands pulled out slightly as if someone had just left or is expected to sit.

The setting feels both intimate and eerie, with the bulb’s faint hum breaking the silence. The surrounding space is cloaked in darkness, only hinted at by faint edges of other objects caught in the spill of light—a corner of a shelf, a hint of an old rug, or a cracked window that lets in no moonlight. Dust particles float lazily through the air, illuminated briefly as they drift through the cone of light.

The atmosphere is heavy, filled with the sense of isolation, mystery, or quiet anticipation—an impression heightened by the stark simplicity of the setup. The minimalistic scene feels like it holds secrets, waiting for someone or something to reveal them.

The door creaks open, and Daron Smythe steps into the room, his silhouette momentarily stark against the faint light spilling in from behind him. His presence fills the space immediately—a quiet, commanding energy that cuts through the dim, shadowed air. The bulb sways slightly in response to the movement, the flickering light dancing over his angular face and the sharp set of his jaw. His strides are deliberate, each step echoing faintly against the wooden floor, the rhythm steady and unshaken.

A simple, worn backpack is slung over one shoulder, its seams stretched tight from being overpacked. The faint outline of the contents presses against the fabric—mysterious, yet intentional, as though each item was chosen with care. The bag brushes lightly against his back as he moves, its weight not slowing him in the slightest.

Reaching the table, Daron pauses for a fraction of a second, his hand resting briefly on the back of the wooden chair before pulling it out. He lowers himself into the seat, movements fluid and controlled. Once seated, he leans forward slightly, placing both hands firmly on the table, his fingers splayed as if anchoring himself to the moment.

Daron raises his head and looks directly into the camera, his eyes piercing through the lens. They’re intense—alive with both determination and fire—giving the impression he can see not just through the camera, but into the soul of whoever is watching. His gaze doesn’t waver, nor does it blink, as though he is holding the world in place with sheer will.

When he speaks, his voice is steady and deliberate, each word delivered with weight and clarity. His expression remains unwavering, his purpose undeniable, as though every syllable carries the potential to change everything. The light bulb above casts stark shadows across his face, accentuating the raw determination etched into every line and curve, leaving no doubt that Daron Smythe is a man on a mission—and this is only the beginning.

DARON:  It may seem excessive and maybe even a bit cliched, but I chose every aspect of this room, this presentation, because I want the focus to be front and center.  I want my message to be heard loud and clear, my own production to be more about substance than style.  I want my intentions crystal clear and I want everyone watching this, whether we are wrestling one another or not, to fully understand who you are dealing with.

When I signed my contract for Asylum Wrestling Society, I gave the green light to Charlie Feigel and the entire management team to use me as they see fit.  That may be my greatest attribute, my reliability - week in, week out, show in, show out, no matter the circumstances, I will be there.  I’ll be there putting on a show in that ring and on that microphone.  All I need is to be handed the ball and I’ll score every fucking time.

I may sound like a broken record when I talk about destiny.  Maybe it is moreso my own stubborn will and determination?  Whatever the reason, something about this just feels…right.  I learned a long time ago whenever life keeps steering you in a certain direction you should lean into it.  

Something keeps bringing us together, Drake Nygma.  The Sphinx. Dollia. All other entities that inhabit your psyche.  Most people would be intimidated by someone like you.  It is clear that you are very, very good.  You are on a level well above many of the other competitors in the AWS.  While the top championships have been passed around a little bit as of late, it seems like your destiny is to be at the top of this company as well.  

Like I said before, I told AWS management to put me in matches as they see fit, and it seems like I was becoming the perfect utility player for them.  Again, it may be a sports cliche, but I am always ready for a fight, and if someone else is going to fumble, you’ll be damn sure I’ll pick up that ball.  But then, they put us together.

That type of challenge is humbling and inspiring at the same time.  Since returning to wrestling nearly three years ago, I’ve never run from a challenge.  I can take a loss and learn from it, move on, become stronger, better, smarter than before.  In the UWL, Cory Chevelle beat the shit out of me - tossed me around the ring like a rag doll.  Many popular wrestling pundits thought I would never come back from it, but I did just that - rebuilding myself in the Coronation Cup, becoming the only man in the company capable of beating Cory for that UWL World Title, the same one I proudly carry around with me now…

Daron Smythe shifts in his seat, his eyes momentarily breaking their intense connection with the camera as his hand moves to the strap of the overstuffed backpack slung over his shoulder. With measured precision, he lowers the bag onto the wooden table, the fabric groaning softly as it settles. His movements are deliberate, like a man who understands the weight of the moment and wants every action to resonate.

Unzipping the bag reveals a hint of what lies inside: the polished gleam of gold and leather. With a quiet, almost reverent care, Daron reaches in, his fingers brushing against the contours of the object as though it holds not just physical weight but the culmination of years of struggle, grit, and sacrifice. Slowly, he pulls out the UWL World Title, its faceplate catching the dim light of the swaying bulb above. The championship belt seems to radiate a glow of its own, its intricate engravings glinting like a testament to the countless battles it represents.

As he places the title on the table before him, the belt lands with a solid yet gentle thud, its presence immediately commanding attention in the room. The leather straps spread out, framing the gleaming centerpiece that declares him the pinnacle of the wrestling world. Daron’s hand lingers on the belt for a moment, his fingers tracing the etching of the championship logo as though connecting with the history and meaning it embodies.

His face transforms—confidence mingling with pride, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth but never fully forming. The weight of accomplishment is there in his expression, alongside the determination that made it possible. His eyes flick back to the camera, burning even brighter now, as though daring anyone watching to challenge the legitimacy of what’s laid before them.

Daron leans back slightly, one hand resting possessively on the belt, his posture exuding the quiet but undeniable authority of a man who knows his worth. When he speaks, his voice is filled with conviction, amplified by the presence of the title in front of him. The UWL World Title isn’t just a trophy—it’s proof. Proof of his dominance, his struggle, and his legacy. And the pride radiating from him makes it clear: this is a moment meant to be etched in history.

DARON:  This belt means a helluva lot to me.  It symbolizes the culmination of all of the work I’ve put in to getting back to the top in professional wrestling - this belt, that company, is part of the reason I’m here now - if I don’t sign that UWL contract, then I’m not sitting here right now in AWS, ready for the fight of my life.  

And trust me, I’m ready for it.  Like in that fight with Cory, I don’t mind the taste of my own blood.  I don’t mind taking that first punch, to know I can absorb it.  It’s like breaking the seal - the feeling is out of the way and I can focus on what is important.  

Drake, you speak about those buildings, the ivory towers - both literally and figuratively.  I understand those comparisons.  I’m not completely sure about the trauma you have lived through in your past that has gotten you to this state, but I know mine, and the character in my life is my own hometown, my city.  A small piece of Appalachia that wishes to be bigger than it really is.  A city that shaped me, both with its kindness of the regular folks I grew up with and those dimwitted assholes who were born into wealth and privilege.

That’s exactly why the ivory tower metaphor makes me laugh - I’m not a person born into anything like that, nor do I believe I am incapable of failure.   Yes, my bravado in calling myself the number one man in professional wrestling may sound arrogant, brash, over the top.  However, it is that singular belief that pushes me to keep going.  I’m not resting on my laurels as the number one man, and I know that no matter which company I am competing in, simply by making that declaration, I am inviting everyone’s daggers to be pointed in my direction.

In my mind, it is another thing that makes us similar, how we view ourselves.  Your human form, the Sphinx, Dollia, all of it - you view yourself as above the fray, passing judgment on all of us - entities you see as beneath you, but you have very human qualities.  You allow your temper to control you, just like any man.  I’ve done that as well.  I signed with Hard Rock Wrestling because their owner handed me a contract offer that was so absurd, I’d be foolish to turn it down.  I tried to do exactly what I do in any company,  and just like that destiny I’ve talked about before, it led me to this…

Daron Smythe adjusts his backpack, a faint smirk creeping across his face as he unzips it again, his motions steady and deliberate. The dim light from the single bulb above seems to dance in anticipation, catching the gleam of another prize nestled within the bag. Reaching inside, he pulls out another championship title: the Hard Rock Wrestling World Title. Its faceplate, though slightly scuffed from hard-fought battles, still shines with authority, reflecting not only the light but also the unmistakable tension of the moment.

As Daron sets the belt on the table beside the UWL World Title, the motion carries a hint of defiance, a subtle statement laden with history. The Hard Rock Wrestling World Title lands with a heavier thud, its presence far more personal, like a grudge immortalized in gold and leather. The belt is broader, flashier, but somehow rougher around the edges, as if it symbolizes not just victory but the fire and fury it took to claim it.

Daron’s smirk deepens as his hand lingers on the title, his fingers pressing into the leather as though feeling the weight of his own triumph. His expression darkens momentarily—an echo of the anger and determination that fueled him when he took that belt, not just for glory, but for something deeper. His eyes glint with a mix of satisfaction and unyielding intensity as he stares down at the title, his mind flickering back to Jayden Riley, the man whose arrogance and laziness made this championship a target.

Jayden had bragged endlessly about winning the title with minimal effort, wearing it like a costume rather than a crown, belittling the blood, sweat, and tears others poured into the ring. Daron had taken it personally, channeling every ounce of his skill—and his infamous temper—into tearing that title from Riley's grasp. The Hard Rock Wrestling World Title wasn’t just a symbol of skill; it was a symbol of vindication, a trophy won not out of necessity but out of spite.

Daron leans forward, the fire in his eyes blazing hotter now, his expression daring anyone to question his reasons, his drive, or his dominance. The light above catches the etching on the belt’s faceplate, highlighting its intricate design—now a monument to both his talent and his wrath. His voice, when it comes, carries a sharper edge, the weight of his words amplified by the dual championship display.

The Hard Rock Wrestling World Title wasn’t just another accolade. It was a testament to Daron Smythe’s resolve, his refusal to be disrespected, and his ability to elevate anything he touches—even when it means proving a point to a man who dared to underestimate him.

DARON:  I can see that I’m starting to annoy you a bit, but that’s good, it shows you are a human, like me.  Humans bleed, humans live, humans die.  Sometimes humans let their emotions override their logic.  I won this Hard Rock Wrestling title not only because I could, but because I let my anger and pride take over.  I watched that good for nothing lazy prick Jayden Riley win the title and then do absolutely NOTHING with it.  It made my blood boil - as a person who has had pro wrestling taken away from me, I would never EVER take something like that - a WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP - for granted, regardless of the company or the perceived prestige.  

Being able to channel these emotions, these flaws, these weaknesses and use them to fuel our passions, is a critical part of being successful.  While I may not always harness those outbursts well, I’ve been more triumphant than not…

With a slow, deliberate motion, Daron Smythe leans forward once more, his hands gripping the edge of the backpack as if savoring the moment. His eyes flicker with a quiet satisfaction as he reaches inside, the fabric rustling faintly. The room feels heavy with anticipation, the swaying bulb above casting fleeting glimmers of light onto the treasure yet to be revealed. His movements are calm but purposeful, a man who knows exactly what he’s about to do—and what it means.

When his hand emerges, it holds the AWS Internet Championship, a belt that radiates prestige even in the dim light. Its polished gold plates reflect the bulb’s yellow glow, while the deep black leather strap anchors its brilliance with a sense of gravitas. Daron lays it out carefully on the table beside the UWL World Title and the Hard Rock Wrestling World Title, forming a growing testament to his dominance. The Internet Championship’s bold design stands out, its insignia symbolizing the reach and recognition of a platform that connected wrestling fans across the globe.

Daron’s face softens for a brief moment, a flicker of pride crossing his features—not the fiery pride of a grudge or the cool pride of conquest, but the quiet satisfaction of someone who understands his value and has forced others to do the same. The AWS Internet Championship wasn’t handed to him; it was a recognition, a calculated reward from management that knew his worth and wanted to stake their claim on his rising star. Yet for Daron, it was never just a token of respect. It was a move in a larger game.

He adjusts the belt on the table, aligning it meticulously with the others, his fingers brushing over the faceplate with purpose. His eyes burn with the vision of something greater. To others, this title might seem like a stepping stone, a rung on the ladder. For Daron, it’s a cornerstone—a key piece of his plan to cement his legacy by achieving the AWS Triple Crown.

The Internet Championship was just the beginning. The Pure Championship was within reach, and the Asylum Heavyweight Title loomed on the horizon like the ultimate prize. Together, they represented not just personal achievement but a roadmap to redefining greatness in AWS. Each belt was a chapter in his story, a calculated step toward a legacy that no one could question.

Daron leans back in his chair, a satisfied yet determined expression settling on his face. His gaze locks onto the camera again, his voice carrying the weight of his ambition and the inevitability of his success. The table in front of him now holds more than just championship gold; it holds a vision of dominance, a blueprint of a man who refuses to settle for anything less than complete and total supremacy.

DARON:  Like I said, when life steers me in a certain direction - I lean into it.  I was put into the Internet Title match, now the Pure tournament, and after winning the Wicked Games Battle Rumble, I’m thrust into the Asylum Heavyweight title scene.  I’m going to take these opportunities and create an AWS Triple Crown and hell, I’ll defend all the belts separately.  

There is one thing you will learn, Sphinx.

It is my destiny to be the AWS Asylum Heavyweight Champion.

The only variable…

Is time…

Daron snaps his fingers and the scene quickly cuts to black…

Ethan Murphy is ready!

Darkness Comes For AWS

Daron’s voice narrates a pitch black screen…

DARON:  I feel like you and I are destined to do this forever, Drake.  Two sides of the same coin and two magnets - opposite, yet the same.  We both have dealt with extreme trauma in our lives and how we choose to deal with them is completely different.

You have chosen to disassociate with reality and in many ways, I respect and even understand it.  There are times I have disassociated in order to survive.  In fact, many times things have happened to me that in the moment felt like distant memories.  Had I not learned how to break away from those things, I might have destroyed myself a long, long time ago.  

You are completely right - the darkness can be all consuming.  However, my mere existence today shows that no matter how dark the situation may be, everything ends. There is daylight even after the darkest, longest, coldest nights.  People grow weary of me talking about my destiny, but how in the hell else do you explain it?  How a kid like me, born inheriting nothing of worldly value would be here, right now, standing at the precipice of destiny.  

The darkness has tried to come for me several times - in fact, it’s my first memory:

The events are burned into my brain, a short, yet intense interaction creating a core memory which has shaped my path in so many ways.

I'm barely two years old, it's late. Sitting in the middle of the floor - surrounded by a scattering of colorful toys—a small plush animal here, a block tower precariously standing there, happily playing while my mother sits close by, nervously tapping her toes while taking a drag from a cigarette.

My father stumbles through the door, to my mom's recollection over four hours after the end of his shift, a line cook in the cafeteria at the local state college. My mother angrily awaited for his return and had she not found a pair of strange underwear in the backseat of the family car this morning, she might have let this one go.

An argument ensues. My mother, typically passive, especially in her exhaustive state of taking care of an especially rambunctious two year old, is fighting back - a prisoner in her own home while her husband is off, likely gallivanting with co-eds on the college campus bar. She's finally had enough.

My father had enough as well, buckling under the pressure of having to work and provide for a while and a two-year old, succumbing to vices that may have been tolerable pre-wife and child, but has damn near pushed his marriage to its breaking point.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp, loud movement. A wooden chair, ordinary but solid, arcs through the air. Its legs blur, the polished wood catching glints of light from a nearby window. The chair hurtles toward the pale-painted wall just feet from the toddler’s head. The sound of its impact is jarring—a deafening crack reverberates through the room, followed by the muffled thunk of the chair bouncing off the wall and hitting the floor.

Plaster dust drifts down slowly like snowflakes, highlighting the small dent now marring the once-pristine wall. The toddler flinches at the noise, their tiny body tensing for a moment. Their gaze snaps toward the source, confusion and fear clouding their expression. The world around them feels unstable, the security they take for granted suddenly shaken. The toddler’s lip quivers, their big eyes begin to well with tears, and their fragile innocence collides with the harshness of the moment.

In a flash, my mother summons all the strength her weary five foot three inch frame had to offer, sprung to her feet - scooped up her crying son in her arms.

"GET THE F**K OUT!" she screams with all her might. My father, in a mix of inebriation, fear, and surprise, stumbles back out the door and in the distance Ihear the car's engine fire up and then fade into the distance.

She held me and rocked me back and forth, soothing her son in her arms, the events of this day shaping their lives moving forward.  The scene once again fades to black and we hear Daron’s voice once more…

DARON:  That one moment, an Earth-shattering, life defining moment.  My first memory - and I don’t share it for sympathy.  I share it because it helps me.  It’s therapeutic.  It helps me remember where I’ve come from and appreciate all the things I h

ave now - things that could have been taken away in an instant - in that mind-altering state my father was in. It could have been the end of me.  It wasn’t, and that’s something I’ve learned to not take for granted.

I know you may look down on me, may think of me as a mortal while you are on the level of some god, but your constant struggle with yourself shows how shackled you are to the same mortal coil, the same limitations, the same fragilities that I face.  Your yearning to shed these human qualities is a simple acknowledgment that while you see yourself as a deity, you have the same flaws that I do, and make the same emotional decisions. 

But whereas you are trying to break away from those human emotions and their effect on our decision making, I embrace those feelings - I lean into it.  These things I share with you - these events strengthen me.  In fact, years after that first core memory, something major happened again…

The clock on the kitchen wall read 11:17 PM. The dim overhead light flickered slightly, casting uneven shadows across the small, outdated kitchen. The walls, once painted a cheerful shade of pale yellow, had faded over the years, much like the memories of better times. Fourteen-year-old Daron Smythe sat at the kitchen table, his elbows resting on the scratched wooden surface, his fingers tracing a groove in the grain. He could hear the distant rumble of a car engine outside, growing louder. His mother, Debbie, stood by the counter, nervously wiping a clean dish with a damp cloth. She glanced toward the front door, eyes filled with a hope that seemed fragile enough to shatter with the slightest misstep.

The engine sputtered off, followed by the unmistakable sound of unsteady footsteps crunching on gravel. A wave of dread swept over Daron. His muscles tensed, his mind warring with itself. He wanted to hope for the best—his mom deserved that much—but something felt wrong.

The front door creaked open, and his father stumbled in, his broad frame slumping against the doorjamb. The stink of alcohol invaded the room almost immediately. His father’s eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, darted around before landing on Debbie. His lips twisted into a grin that looked more like a grimace.

DAN:  Debbie he slurred you’re lookin’ good.

Debbie forced a smile, her fingers gripping the dish towel so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

DEBBIE: Hi, Dan she said softly You’re late…

DAN: Late?

 Dan let out a humorless laugh, his head lolling slightly. 

DAN: Who cares? I’m here, aren’t I?

He pushed away from the door and staggered toward the center of the room, the clumsy shuffle of his feet echoing like a warning.

DAN: Besides he continued I was busy with... Debbie.

Debbie blinked, confusion clouding her face. 

DEBBIE: What are you talking about?

DAN: Another Debbie Dan sneered. A different one. Funnier. Prettier.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, his hand knocking a glass to the floor. The crash shattered the fragile silence, shards of glass scattering across the linoleum.

DEBBIE: Dan, please she whispered Why are you doing this?

DAN: Why? he snapped, his voice a growl Because I can. Because I’m not some pathetic, desperate... woman—

DARON: Don’t talk to her like that.

Daron interrupted, his voice steady but edged with a raw anger he barely recognized.

Dan turned to his son, his eyes narrowing. 

DAN: Oh, look at you. Big man now, huh? Think you can tell me what to do?

He pushed himself off the counter, advancing toward Debbie, his movements erratic, unpredictable. 

Maybe she needs a reminder of who’s in charge?

Debbie took a step back, her voice trembling. 

DEBBIE: Dan, don’t.

But he didn’t listen. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist. Her gasp of pain was a dagger to Daron’s heart.

Something inside Daron snapped. He surged to his feet, his chair scraping across the floor with a harsh screech. His vision tunneled, all his fear and anger boiling over in a single, instinctive motion. His fist clenched tightly, he stepped forward and swung with all the strength his fourteen-year-old frame could muster.

The punch landed squarely on his father’s jaw. The sickening crack reverberated through the room. Dan’s head snapped to the side, and he staggered back, eyes wide with shock. He touched his lip, where a thin trickle of blood ran down to his chin.

DAN: You little…

Dan began, but his voice faltered. For a moment, the man who loomed so large in Daron’s nightmares looked small, defeated. He shook his head, his gaze avoiding Daron’s. Without another word, he stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and disappeared into the night.

The sound of his father’s footsteps faded, leaving an emptiness that felt both terrifying and liberating.

Daron’s chest heaved as he stood there, his fist still clenched. His knuckles ached, but he barely noticed. Debbie sank to her knees beside him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her body shaking with silent sobs.

DEBBIE: I’m sorry, baby. she whispered. I’m so sorry.

Daron swallowed hard, his own tears threatening to break free. He placed a hand on his mother’s head, his fingers threading through her hair.

DARON: It’s okay, Mom. he said, his voice barely audible I’ve got you.

In that moment, Daron knew something had changed forever. The boy he had been was gone, and in his place stood someone who understood, far too early, what it meant to protect the ones you love—even from their own demons.

The scene fades slowly back to the present, where we see a dark room, a single chair in the center with a single bulb overhead.  Daron Smythe sits in the chair, slumped over and exhausted from a workout.  Daron wipes the sweat from his brow and looks up at the camera…

DARON: If you think you can bring a bigger darkness to me than I have already faced, Drake, you are dead wrong.  I have looked death and despair in the eyes several times.  I have faced my biggest fears from a young age.  I have had to grow up and be a man way before I should have been.  And you know what?  I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.  All of those things prepared me for this day.  My mother, showing me that example of strength, how to fight back.  

Do you really think I fear any parts of your being?  I’ve stood toe to toe with you in the ring before, and if you think you are going to evolve, to shed your skin like a snake and suddenly be that much better than me, you are dead wrong.  This grit, this determination, this will to succeed within me has been burned into my brain, my heart, and my soul since a very young age.  Maybe to some people claiming that I am #1 makes me an asshole.  But for me?  I’ve had to keep telling myself this every single day, to get myself to get up early and workout.  To will myself to study tapes and learn from the best professional wrestlers on the planet.  

I am coming to Reindeer Games to show why I call myself the number one man in all of professional wrestling and at the end of the night, when I strap the belt around my waist, you, in whatever form or name you choose to call yourself will have to acknowledge that I am the AWS Asylum Heavyweight Champion because it is my destiny to be the champion.  The only variable…

Daron looks right into the camera, burning a hole through the lens with his gaze…

Is time.

Daron snaps his fingers and the scene quickly cuts to black…

Asylum Tales #1

The scene begins in near-total darkness. A faint, rhythmic dripping sound is heard in the background. The camera fades in to reveal an old, abandoned clock factory. Dust particles float through beams of pale moonlight filtering through broken windows. Massive gears and shattered clock faces lie strewn across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of rust and decay.

From the shadows, Daron Smythe emerges, his presence both commanding and deliberate. The familiar smirk plays across his lips, but there’s a cold steel in his eyes — a determination forged in the fires of ambition.

DARON: “Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound of inevitability. The sound of time passing, of seconds bleeding into minutes, minutes dissolving into hours. For most people, it’s background noise. But for men like me — men who understand what it means to seize every fleeting moment — it’s a reminder. A reminder that time waits for no one.”

“That's why, when I returned to professional wrestling about two and a half years ago, I hit the ground running.  I had been away from our great sport for nearly a decade for a multitude of reasons.  I had been hurt - hurt by a woman I loved and had put all my hope and trust in.  When that trust was broken?  I had to disassociate with everything that could hurt me.  When I realized it wasn’t professional wrestling’s fault, that professional wrestling was the one thing that truly motivated me.  Professional wrestling is the thing that motivated me from an early age and when it was gone, I felt a true emptiness inside of me.  I knew I had let a lot of time slip through my fingertips.  I had to make up for lost time…”

Smythe walks through the debris of the clock factory, his footsteps echoing ominously.

DARON: “Drake Nygma, you want to turn AWS into a labyrinth, a cage of your own making. You want to play the puppet master, pulling strings from the shadows, thinking you’re always one step ahead. But here’s the thing about labyrinths, Sphinx — they’re designed to trap the weak, the lost, the clueless. I’m none of those things.”

“I think, deep down, you know exactly that I am none of those things.  I’ve watched from afar as you steamroll people.  Your physical prowess and mental capabilities are a sight to behold.  And yet, despite all of your success and your abilities - you still feel the need, the desire, the absolute necessity - to change.  I think you felt that when we were in the ring - that you had finally stepped in the ring with someone who could match and possibly overtake you.  Based upon the way you’ve reacted to this revelation, I’m not sure if you hate or embrace this challenge.  As exhausting as you have been to match up with, I’ve grown to embrace this challenge.  I said before, Cory Chevelle is the most physical man I’ve ever been in the ring with.  Cyrus Rinaldi may be the most intelligent, cunning wrestler I’ve stood across the ring from.  Drake, you may be the perfect combination of these qualities.  Make no mistake about it, I’m happy to have the chance to face this challenge.  I know, win, lose or draw, I’ll come out on the other side of this better for it.

He stops in front of a rusted grandfather clock. The pendulum swings listlessly, creaking with each pass.

DARON: “You call yourself the riddle no one can solve. But riddles, Drake, are just puzzles with answers waiting to be found. You’ve spent years — centuries, if your delusions are to be believed — locked in cages of your own making. Scribbling riddles on the walls, whispering to rats, convincing yourself that chaos is freedom. But all you’ve really done is chain yourself to madness.”

“That madness seems to engulf you.  Your psyche is a swirl of different personas.  As much as you talk as though you are on some otherworldly plane, some immortal being, you bleed blood, just like I do.  You may consider yourself tethered to a mortal vessel, but that mortal vessel has limitations just like me.  

Smythe’s fingers trace the cracked glass of the clock face.

DARON: “You say freedom is a lie. That we’re all prisoners of one kind or another. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we are trapped. Trapped by expectations, by fate, by our own damn fears. But unlike you, I don’t embrace the cage. I break out of it. I don’t scratch riddles into the walls and call it a masterpiece. I tear those walls down.”

"Drake, the difference between us isn’t just how we see the cage — it’s what we do with it. You dress your confinement up with riddles and symbolism, painting yourself as some grand architect of chaos, a tortured soul who found comfort in the confines of madness. But me? I see the cage for what it is: an obstacle, a challenge, something meant to be obliterated. While you lose yourself in the maze, convinced that its walls give you purpose, I’m sharpening my mind, my fists, and my willpower to bust through. Your walls aren’t protection, they’re a prison. They’re limits. And I refuse to be limited by anything — not by fear, not by fate, and sure as hell not by the twisted constructs of a man who’s forgotten what the outside world even looks like. Freedom might be an illusion for you, but for me, it’s the only reality worth fighting for."

He turns to face the camera, the intensity in his eyes cutting through the gloom.

DARON: “Drake, you’ve convinced yourself that AWS is your playground. That we’re all just pieces on your twisted chessboard. You talk about Reindeer Games being the start of your endgame, the beginning of some grand, chaotic spectacle. But let me remind you of something: This isn’t your show. This isn’t your story. This is my time.”

"That’s where your delusion gets the better of you. You believe that you’re the puppet master pulling strings, that the rest of us are just mindless pawns caught in your elaborate game. But puppets don’t have a heartbeat, and pawns don’t fight back. I’m not a piece on your chessboard — I’m the damn wrecking ball coming to tear it apart. Reindeer Games isn’t your curtain call; it’s the night your illusion shatters. You’ve spent so long building this fantasy world where you control the chaos, but I’m here to remind you that chaos doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t favor the one who thinks he controls it. And when the bell rings, all your riddles, all your schemes, and all your grand designs will crumble under the weight of reality. This isn’t a spectacle for you to direct. This is a battleground where only the strongest, the smartest, and the most relentless survive — and that’s me. This is my moment, my legacy, and my championship to claim."

Smythe starts walking again, his pace measured, deliberate. The dust swirls around him as if the factory itself holds its breath.

DARON: “You see, Drake, time is a funny thing. It doesn’t care about your riddles or your chaos. It doesn’t care how long you’ve been trapped in your own mind. Time just keeps moving forward. And right now, it’s counting down to the moment I kick your teeth in and take that Asylum Heavyweight Championship off your cold, painted shoulders.”

He pauses, chuckling to himself.

DARON: “And then there’s you, Ethan Murphy. The former champion. The man who can’t stop clinging to what was, who can’t let go of the glory days. I get it, Ethan. You were on top once. You held the gold. You felt that rush, that validation. But let me tell you something about time — it doesn’t care about your past. The clock doesn’t turn backward. It only ticks forward.”

Smythe’s smirk fades into a look of genuine disdain.

DARON: “You’re like an old record stuck on repeat. You think because you held that title once, you’re owed a second chance. But the world doesn’t owe you a damn thing. You have to take it. And the sad truth, Ethan, is that you’re just not hungry enough. You’re chasing ghosts, while I’m out here creating a legacy.”

DARON: "Ethan, you’re like a ghost haunting your own past, desperate to relive the moments when you were the man everyone cheered for, the man who carried that gold and thought he was untouchable. But here’s the cold, hard truth — the past is dead, and you can’t resurrect it. Time is merciless. It doesn’t rewind for sentiment, for nostalgia, or for faded glory. While you’re busy looking back, clinging to memories of what you once were, I’m charging forward, carving out a future that belongs to me. I’m not here to relive old chapters or reclaim old glories; I’m here to write a new story, one where I’m the champion, I’m the standard, and I’m the man everyone talks about. You think your experience gives you an edge? Nah, it just makes you complacent. And in this game, complacency gets you left behind. When the bell rings at Reindeer Games, you won’t be the man reclaiming his title — you’ll be the man who realizes too late that the future passed him by. Tick-tock, Ethan. Your glory days are over, and the future is mine."

Smythe steps over a pile of shattered gears, the crunch of metal echoing beneath his boots.

DARON: “At Reindeer Games, it’s not about the past. It’s not about chaos or labyrinths or riddles. It’s about who wants it more. Who’s willing to bleed, to suffer, to push past their limits and come out the other side holding that championship high.”

He stops in front of a massive clock face lying cracked and broken on the ground. The hands are frozen at 11:59.

DARON: “You see this? One minute to midnight. That’s where we are, Drake. That’s where we are, Ethan. The final minute before everything changes. Before the bell rings and the world sees who really deserves to call themselves the Asylum Heavyweight Champion.”

Smythe crouches down, his eyes fixed on the broken clock.

DARON: “Drake, you said we might be destined to do this forever. That you represent chaos and I’m your foil, carving out my own legacy. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we are locked in some eternal struggle, two forces destined to clash over and over again.”

He stands up slowly, his eyes burning with resolve.

DARON: “But here’s the thing about destiny — it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you don’t have the guts to fight for it. And I’m ready to fight. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make sure that when the dust settles, it’s my hand raised, my name in the history books, and that championship belt around my waist.”

DARON: “I’m sure it sounds like a broken record to everyone because I repeat it so often but it is my destiny to be World Champion.  People get sick of hearing it, but look at what has happened?  Two-time and current UWL World Champion, HRW World Champion, ECWF Triple Crown Winner, future MAINSTREAM Wrestling Television Champion, and now?  A shot at the Asylum Heavyweight Champion.  Destiny seems so cliche but if it isn’t destiny, what keeps putting me here?  I learned a long time ago that when opportunity calls, you listen.  

Smythe takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with controlled intensity.

DARON: “At Reindeer Games, the clock strikes midnight. The chaos ends. The past fades. And the future — my future — begins.”

He points to the broken clock face, the hands still frozen at 11:59.

DARON: “This is where I typically say my destiny is to be world champion and the only variable is time, but…

“Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time’s up.”

He turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows. The camera lingers on the broken clock, the hands still refusing to move. The screen fades to black, and the sound of a ticking clock echoes into silence.