Eric Herrera ©, Drake Nygma © & Daron Smythe vs. Ethan Murphy, Napalm Steele & Leon Roberts ©

Six Man Tag Team Elimination Match

Six of Asylum Wrestling Society's top superstars clash in an intense, high-stakes match to see which team—or perhaps which individuals—will emerge victorious.

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3x Maximum Promos, No Word Limit

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[Begin transmission: Static hissing like insects crawling beneath skin. A whisper that pierces thought.]

The Sphinx:

You scream into the void and call it charisma.

You name every room you stand in like it’s a shrine to your ego.

The “Pleasure Dome.”

The “Devil’s Titan.”

The “Ultra Violence Championship.”

…Such noise.

Such branding.

Tell me — do you ever stop selling?

I come from a place where we speak in silence. Where storms gather without screaming their name. You shout your worth like it will protect you. But I am not a fan. I am not a consumer. I am not here for the show.

I am the thing beneath it.

[beat]

You bed your lover on camera like it proves dominance. You sit on couches in neon clubs, drinking sugar and venom.

And yet, here I am — faceless, forgotten, uninvited… and still closer to truth than you’ve ever dared to tread.

Do you think rage makes you real?

That expletives and punchlines justify your violence?

I wear no crown. I do not strut. I whisper. And they still bleed.

[beat — the tone sharpens]

You call me a jizzwad.

How… poetic.

Your vocabulary is as deep as your psyche — a swimming pool built atop a sinkhole.

You won’t understand this, but I am doing you a favour. The slow, surgical removal of your illusions is an act of mercy.

I am the fracture in your monologue. The shadow on your reel.

You can’t kill a god if you don’t even understand his riddle.

And you…

You don’t.

[Transmission ends. A riddle fades in with the static:]

“What boasts but never knows, bleeds but never dies, and crumbles when seen clearly?”

🩸 “You Sell Skin. I Peel It Back.”

(Monologue #1 — TV Broadcast)

Static. Then breathing. Not human. Deep. Uneven. Then the mask appears, just for a second—white, cracked, bloodstained. A whisper slides in like a knife beneath fingernails.

The Sphinx:

They touch each other like it means something.

They kiss on camera, not out of need, but marketing.

Lips as currency. Moans as advertisement.

You people — you don’t make love, you sell it.

And worse… you applaud it.

Strip clubs masquerading as temples. Lovers who can’t last two lines without undressing for the algorithm. You call it "passion." I call it performance rot. I’ve seen more sincerity in a tax audit.

[beat]

You think showing skin makes you powerful.

But power doesn’t come from what you expose.

It comes from what you withhold.

I have no need to thrust or pant or pose.

I only need to speak.

And you will tremble.

🔪 “The Rapture of Thirst”

(Monologue #2 — Graffiti Message + Audio Feed)

Message scrawled in dried black ink on a women’s bathroom mirror in the Pleasure Dome:

“They thirst for you. You drown in them. Who dies first?”

The Sphinx audio transmission: There’s something funny about the way you people desire.It’s all very... manufactured. Like desire poured into a plastic mold, stamped with glitter, and sold between commercial breaks.Her breasts.His abs.Their moans.You make hunger look like a shopping list.You turn craving into choreography.And I find it all so… adorably empty.While you grind and groan and perform your synthetic pleasure, I am crafting something deeper. Something that doesn’t fade with the lights.You don’t understand power.You understand presentation.But when the show ends, and all the masks are peeled away…I'll still be here.And you’ll still be afraid to be seen.

🪞 “Mirror Scene: An American Aphrodisiac”

(Monologue #3 — Video Segment)

A cracked mirror. The Sphinx stands just out of frame. We hear his voice over a grainy, flickering VHS filter.

The Sphinx:

Every scene. Every skit. Every "promo."

It always ends the same way, doesn’t it?

Someone pouts. Someone straddles someone. Someone bites a lip and the crowd pops like Pavlov’s dogs.

You don’t tell stories. You simulate orgasms.

Because here… lust sells more than loss. Skin more than soul.

What is wrestling, if not the American theatre of sweat and suggestion?

You’ve traded tension for titillation.

I do not seduce. I do not flirt. I do not flash muscle or moan my name in the dark.

I strip you with riddles.

I undress your lies.

I make you feel naked.

That’s real power.

🔥 1. “The Gaze That Consumes”

Transmission begins. No image — just flickering static and a slow, rhythmic sound like dripping water. Then, the whispering starts, as if it’s coming from inside the listener’s skull.

The Sphinx:

You watch them.

They know you do.

They perform for your eyes, your clicks, your sick little winks through the screen.

Every pose — calculated.

Every groan — choreographed.

Every “passionate” kiss, every straddle, every purring catchphrase?

They aren’t speaking to each other.

They’re speaking to you.

And you eat it up, don’t you?

It doesn’t matter what they’re saying — only how they say it. Bent just right. Lit just so.

A thigh here. A pout there. You call it “storytelling.”

I call it ritualistic self-destruction.

You’ve mistaken gaze for meaning.

You’ve confused desire with substance.

You think you’re watching gods rise…

…but you’re just watching actors burn.

And I?

I don’t burn.

I master the flame, bring it to bear on the vapid, the immoral, those who scream, who pant, purr and moan in what they call pleasure…. Which in reality is a form of deception, whispered lies between lovers, such a fragile bond that is formed by sweat and sex. 

💧 2. “You Call It Heat. I Call It Sweat.”

Camera cuts to a backstage hallway. Flickering fluorescent light. The Sphinx stands just out of view, one finger slowly drawing a spiral on a locker door with red paint.

The Sphinx (softly):

You call it chemistry.

You call it heat.

You show up half-naked, slicked in oil, panting like beasts in rut and call it a feud.

What you forget — what you cannot fathom — is that heat fades.

Sweat dries.

The scent of lust wears off with the next promo.

You play at violence the way children play dress-up in their parents’ bedsheets.

You mistake horniness for hate.

You think the audience cheers for the match.

They’re cheering for the foreplay.

But me?

I don’t sweat. I boil.

I don’t need to grind to ignite fear.

My words alone can cauterise your nerves and leave you gasping — not with arousal. With revelation.

You cannot flirt your way out of oblivion.

You cannot fuck your way past the riddle.

And that’s where I wait.

🕳 3. “Desire Is Not Depth”

A projection on a cracked cinema screen in a blacked-out theatre. The Sphinx stands before it — silhouetted, masked, unmoving.

The Sphinx:

You confuse thirst for depth.

Just because they want you — doesn’t mean you’re worth wanting.

Every week, you paint your flesh, curve your spines, whisper your lines like a third-rate cabaret with a championship belt.

And the audience?

They lap it up like wine.

But desire is not depth.

Being craved is not the same as being understood.

Being ogled is not the same as being feared.

And being touched is not the same as being seen.

You parade around as if being desired makes you powerful.

But in the end, you are just skin-deep.

And I…

I’m a god wearing a mask made of your regrets.

You scream with your bodies.

I whisper with my mind.

And when the lights die — and the desire cools — I’ll still be here.

Unseen.

Unmoved.

Unforgettable.

🕳️ “The Loathing of Lust: Why The Sphinx Rejects Sexualization”

🔺 1. Because Sex Is Finite, And He Is Not

The Sphinx is ancient. Sex is brief.

Where mortals seek flesh, he sees only decay. Sweat, pheromones, desperation — they do not spark awe in him. They spark boredom. It is embarrassing to witness such base rituals passed off as power.

The Sphinx internal:“You pant. You groan. You thrust your hips like it proves you exist. But I have watched civilisations collapse mid-climax. I have outlived every orgasm. You perform the primitive and call it sacred. I blink… and centuries pass. Your lust lasts seconds.”

Sexual display is a performance of mortality — and The Sphinx does not perform. He endures.

🔺 2. Because It's A Shortcut To Worship

Sexualized personas are often cheats in his eyes — they are performance over presence. Mortals dress themselves in desire like false gods, demanding attention not for meaning but for arousal.

To The Sphinx, that is sacrilege.

The Sphinx broadcast:“You mistake being wanted for being worshipped. Your body is not an altar — it is bait. And I do not kneel before bait.”

He hates it not for being lewd, but for being lazy. Because instead of mastering fear, knowledge, or truth — the sexualized choose titillation.

To The Sphinx, they are false prophets wearing thongs and flexing in the glow of their own emptiness.

🔺 3. Because Desire Is A Distraction From The Riddle

The Sphinx is a god of questions, not cravings. He exists to break the minds of mortals, not to tempt them.

When others center sex in their stories, he sees it as a shallow smokescreen — a way to avoid looking inward, avoid answering the real questions.

“What is the point of being desired… if you cannot even define yourself?”

“You offer skin. I offer revelation. They scream for you. They kneel for me.”

To The Sphinx, sexualization is not evil — it is irrelevant. A distraction from depth. A loud moan trying to silence an eternal question.

🔺 4. Because It Reduces The Human Form To Predictable Code

And worst of all? To him… it’s predictable.

The curves. The moans. The faux dominance. The hunger masked as power. He’s seen it all. It is an algorithm he can solve in seconds.

The Sphinx to camera:“You dress your hormones in velvet and call it strategy. But desire is math. A pattern. A formula. I solved it before you even stripped.”

He finds no mystery in it. And without mystery, there is no tension — no puzzle. And without a puzzle?

There is only annoyance.

🔺 5. Because He Has No Use For It

The Sphinx cannot be seduced. He has no flesh to crave. No glands to swell. He is beyond physicality. So when sexuality is weaponized against him, it lands like a paper arrow against granite.

He sees it for what it is: a cry for attention by beings too afraid to stand still and be understood.

The Sphinx final whisper:“You arch your back to be seen.I stand still and am remembered. You crave. I command. You undress for the gaze. I unmake with a single glance.”

🎭 “The Fate of Flesh-Peddlers”

A dimly lit room. No walls — just shadow. The camera flickers in grayscale. A faint hum, like wind through bone. A single candle burns on a stone pedestal. In front of it stands The Sphinx — robed, still, his mask a white void streaked with blood.

The Sphinx softly:I have seen your kind before. Not once. Not twice. Thousands of times. Centuries pass. Empires rise. And still… the dancers return. The ones who mistake lust for legacy. The ones who mistake being wanted for being worthy. They enter, hips swaying, lips parted, eyes wide with hunger… and they leave — broken. Forgotten. Rotting beneath layers of artificial heat.

[He raises one hand, slowly, fingers twitching like pulling invisible threads.]

You think you are special because they cheer louder when you kiss. You think you are powerful because they pause longer when you undress. But I’ve seen queens die in satin sheets. I’ve seen gods sell themselves for a single gaze. And when their bodies were spent… when the lust dried up… no one remembered their names.

[He steps forward into the half-light. We see the mask. Unblinking. Bloodstained. Inhuman.]

Because the fate of those who sell themselves as skin first… is always the same. They burn. Bright. Loud. Brief. And then they are ash. And I remain.

[He lowers his head slightly — like pity. Or disgust.]

The spotlight you bathe in now? It is not warmth. It is the sun. And you are standing too close. You will melt. You will fade. And when your reflection no longer responds to the camera… …I will be waiting in the dark behind it.

[He walks out of frame. The candle dies. Static surges.]

The Sphinx flat, unimpressed:“Cheers for softening him up, mate. Real noble of you to do all that ‘fucken everything you can’ business.”

[Scene: A black void. Not space — before space. A place where thought condenses into matter. Stone monoliths rise and fall in fractal rhythm. Floating silver machinery turns, suspended in silence. A Genesis Chamber —. Ancient. Older. Crueler.]

NARRATOR The Voice of the Chamber:“Designed. Not born. Forged. Not bled. The Sphinx was not granted choice. He was granted purpose.”

[We see him — an unformed body suspended in obsidian fluid. Tendrils of ancient code writhe around him like intelligent smoke. His mask is not placed — it grows, bone-white, blood-touched, forming where his face would be.]

GENESIS CORE:

“You are not made for joy.You are not made for love. You are made to endure.

To observe. To judge. To unmake.”

[The chamber pulses once — then goes still. The Sphinx opens his eyes. And behind the mask… they do not blink.]

🗣 MONOLOGUE: "A Whisper About Humanity"

[The Sphinx stands in shadow. His robe is still. His voice — calm. Quiet. Not soft. It is the kind of quiet that causes people to lean forward in fear without knowing why.]

The Sphinx: “You… fascinate me.”

“So fragile. So impulsive. Yet you act with such… entitlement.”

“You dress your chaos in banners. You name your hunger freedom. You sell your bodies and scream that it is strength.”

“You cannot control yourselves… and you celebrate that as virtue.”

[He takes one step forward. We hear nothing, but we feel it — the gravity shift.]

“Where I was born, we were not given names. We were given functions.”

“I was not taught kindness. I was not offered hope. I was built for one thing: Completion.”

“You call that cruel. I call it clarity.”

[He tilts his head slightly — not in curiosity. In calculation.]

“I do not hate you. I do not envy you.”

“I simply do not need you.”

“You will try to provoke me with your lust.With your sentiment. With your artifice.”

“But I will not sway. I will not crack. I will complete.”

[A long pause. Then… a whisper, colder than any scream.]

“Your gods weep. I do not.”

“And that is why I win.”

The Sphinx voice barely above a whisper, deliberate:“One wears the weight of forgotten glories like rusted armor. Another fills the void with noise — a desperate echo in an empty hall. Both cling to illusions of grandeur, unaware their pillars crumble beneath them. Their time will come. But not tonight. I am not yet done unfolding this riddle.”

[The scene closes with The Sphinx standing alone, the weight of the AWS Legacy Championship belt resting heavy but deserved across his shoulder. The crowd’s roar fades into a distant echo—he neither seeks nor hears their adulation.]

The Sphinx voice low, steady, final:“This… is not a victory. Not a conquest. It is a declaration.”

“I am the first to wear this crown.The beginning of a lineage that will not bend, Will not falter, And will not forget its purpose.”

“Legacy is not given. Legacy is forged. In silence. In discipline. In the ruin of those who dare oppose it.”

[He adjusts the belt, the Egyptian runes along its strap glowing faintly like embers.]

“I carry this burden as I do all things: Without need, without desire, without error.”

“Those who follow will learn — The Sphinx is not a man. I am focus made into flesh.”

[The camera fades out as The Sphinx’s masked face turns upward, the stars beyond reflecting coldly in his gaze — a dark god watching over a world newly his to reshape.]

[A dimly lit boxing gym tucked in the Bronx, early morning. Rain taps against the windows. A beat-up heavy bag sways slightly. The camera pans over to find #1 Daron Smythe in a gray hoodie, workout bag sitting on a bench nearby, sweat glistening on his brow as he finishes a set of push-ups. He stands, pulls the hood down, and stares into the camera with a simmering intensity.]

DARON SMYTHE: Madison Square Garden.

The Mecca.

You walk through those hallways, and the walls practically breathe history.
Bruno. Pedro. Backlund.
Names carved into the granite of this sport, men who built the foundation for everything we’re doing today.

And now?
Now I get to walk through those same corridors.
Lace up my boots in the same locker room.
Stand in the middle of that ring.

It’s not lost on me. It’s an honor.

But let’s not pretend I’m walking into the Garden the way I wanted to.

No…
I’m walking in, flanked by my two biggest rivals.

[He paces, voice steady but with a sharper edge.]

Drake Nygma.
The Sphinx.
The enigma who seems to be the only other man in AWS whose name echoes as loud as mine. You and I - we’ve gone to war. We’ve bled in those trenches.
And now you’re holding the keys to the next UltraViolence Title shot… and yeah, Drake, I’ll admit it - there’s a part of me that envies that. Because while you got to stay in the spotlight, I got shuffled off to a brand that doesn't even exist anymore.

I used my Demon Case to earn a shot…
And the moment I moved to Assault? Poof. Gone.

No reward. No justice. No gold.

[He stops, looks dead into the camera.]

But don’t get it twisted.
You may be the next one in line for that title - but if you don’t take it from Herrera?

I will.

Because unlike some, I’m owed that rematch.

Speaking of which…
Eric Herrera.

The company man.
The step-son of ownership.
The champion by circumstance.

Let me ask you something, Eric - how’s that title feel around your waist, knowing you never beat me for it?
Knowing your integrity keeps getting “questioned” because you walked back in and got handed a front row seat at the table… while I had to claw my way back into relevance?

It must be exhausting trying to explain how you earned all this…
Because the truth is - you didn’t.
You inherited it.

Still, for one night, we’re partners. We don't have to like each other.
We just have to get through it.

Because across the ring?

Let’s start with Ethan Murphy.
The opportunist. The thief.
The man who stole that title off me by cashing in his Demon Case and ending my reign when I wasn’t even upright.

You think I forgot?
You think that didn’t eat at me every single day since?

I’ve carried this company on my back.
Made every town.
Worked every show.
Put on classics with everyone you put in front of me.

And yet guys like you and Eric? You’re the ones that end up with the belts.
I’ve done things the right way, the honorable way
But maybe, just maybe, I need to stop being polite and start being the monster they keep painting me to be.

And then there’s Napalm Steele.

I don’t know much about you, and frankly, you might want to keep it that way.
Because stepping into this match with me already has you on thin ice.
You’re walking into a powder keg surrounded by volatile egos and broken promises—and you? You’re about to get torched.

Last but not least…
Leon Roberts.

The Intercontinental Champion.
A giant of a man. A true physical marvel.
And my next target at Beach Wars in Daytona.

We had our fun back on Assault, didn’t we?
A few run-ins. Some heated moments.
But come Beach Wars, it’s not just about getting the better of each other.

It’s about who gets to walk out with championship gold.
And as impressive as you are, Leon…
You’re not going one-on-one with some flavor-of-the-month.
You’re not locking up with some lucky rookie.

You’re going head-to-head with the number one man in professional wrestling.

I’ve been a World Champion.
I’ve been the workhorse.
And now, I’m coming back for everything that was taken, stolen, and handed away.

[Daron grabs a towel, throws it over his neck, and steps toward the exit, but turns back one last time.]

This Monday night, in Madison Square Garden?

Another chapter gets written in the story of Daron Smythe.
Because no matter the tag partners, no matter the enemies, no matter the chaos...

I’m climbing back.
To the top.
To where I belong.
To where I never should’ve fallen from.

Because the future?
It still says #1.

And I’m the only man who can wear that title.

[Fade out.]

The scene opens in absolute stillness — a great, domed chamber carved from obsidian and starmetal, suspended in void. It defies physics. It resists intrusion. The vault breathes slowly, as if alive, every breath echoing like an earthquake through a cathedral.

The Archive is infinite — rows upon rows of suspended glyph-tombs, floating scripts sealed in glass sarcophagi, scrolls written in languages older than thought. Some glow. Others bleed. A few scream, softly.

At the center of it all stands a figure.

He is still. Unmoving.

A silhouette cast in divine geometry.

His white yokai mask, bloodstained and unblinking, reflects the glimmering runes that drift like fireflies in orbit around him.

His name is The Sphinx —

But here, titles do not matter.

Only function does.

A thin, robed initiate enters — nervous, breathing too loudly. They carry a text bound in cursed sinew, pulsing faintly.

Initiate (whispering): “Custodian… I’ve completed the extraction. This record was recovered from a ruined god-engine… They say it speaks to the root of suffering. Do we archive it… or—”

The Sphinx raises one hand. The initiate stops mid-sentence, as if his tongue has forgotten movement.

He walks forward. Slow. Deliberate. Not out of fatigue — but because the weight of judgment demands ritual. The Sphinx does not move quickly. Nothing holy rushes.

He places his hand on the vile book.

His fingers do not tremble. His mask does not shift.

A thousand glyphs bloom across his armor like blooming scars.

Then, quietly:

The Sphinx (measured, gentle): “It hungers. Knowledge that feeds does not belong in preservation. It will be burned.”

Initiate: “But—w-we could learn—!”

The Sphinx (without raising his voice):“You could. But you would not remain.”

He walks to a platform at the heart of the chamber — the Ash Gate. A pit where unworthy truths are unmade. He holds the tome above it.

The Sphinx: “The Archive is not memory. It is refinement.”

He drops the book.

There is no fire. No flash.

Only silence — a silence that devours. The book vanishes from reality. No ash. No echo. Just... nothing.

He turns back to the initiate.

“Some truths elevate. Others infect. We do not keep rot here.”

“We do not enshrine hunger.”

“You will forget this retrieval. You will return to your station. If you resist, your memory will be adjusted.”

Initiate (barely breathing): “Yes, Custodian.”

The Sphinx turns again, slowly disappearing into the darkness of the vault, backlit by endless runes.

The Sphinx (whispering to himself now): “I was not made to feel history. I was made to preserve only what survives it.”

 The Archive is quiet. The Sphinx stands alone in a side chamber — darker, colder than the others. This is not where records are kept. This is where they are buried.

Here, no glyphs orbit.

No lights flicker.

Only a vast, flat monolith of black glass embedded in the floor. When The Sphinx steps forward, it awakens — showing echoes of what once was.

What no longer is.

He kneels before it.

Not in reverence.

But as one performing a necessary exorcism.

The Sphinx (quiet, sharp):“These are not secrets. They are failures of restraint. Histories the flesh could not endure. So I removed them.”

“From books. From blood. From language. From sleep.”

🔥 Forgotten Truth #1: The Mother War

A global uprising thousands of years before recorded history — where humanity united not to survive, but to cleanse themselves of the divine.

“Your ancestors once tried to erase the gods. You do not remember. They found the divine within themselves and ripped it out — not in awe, but in disgust.”

“When they failed, I erased the evidence. The ruins, the cults, the mass deaths.I locked their screams behind stone.”

☣️ Forgotten Truth #2: The Children Who Spoke Stars

In the early 20th century, a group of infants in rural Russia were born speaking an untraceable celestial language. Within six months, their words began unmaking physical matter. Their city disappeared.

“You believe they died in a flood. You call it a natural disaster. The children did not drown.They were made into anti-thought.”

“I erased their syllables from memory. I made language safe again.”

🕳 Forgotten Truth #3: The Well of Mirrors

In 1978, a science lab in Geneva opened a brief window into an inverted plane — a reality where every human impulse was reversed. The first thirty scientists who gazed into it self-erased by willpower alone, whispering, “I have seen the unkind truth.”

“You think they died of chemical exposure. Their final note was not in ink. It was written in the alignment of their spines — contorted to match a divine letter.”

“The window is closed. The plane is sealed. The word they saw? Still echoes in the Archive.”

The Sphinx rises, the monolith’s surface going still again — not black now, but a deep, burnt red, as if some memory beneath it still bleeds.

“You do not know these things. Because I have made it so. You do not fear them. Because I have stolen the shape of your fear.”

“What you call peace… It is curated. What you call history… is mercy.”

He walks away. The monolith dims. The vault re-seals.

The Sphinx (soft, almost sad):

“The truth is not too much for the mind. It is too much for the species.”

“And so I remain.”

“To forget... for all of you.”

The Sphinx walks alone through a wing few even know exists — The Chamber of Echoes. Here, he stores not artifacts, but vibrations — psychic imprints, discarded patterns, thought-rhythms too close to divine corruption to be written down.

As he passes one vault, a low, unfamiliar sound slithers from the sealed black stone.

A voice.

Not speech.

A rhythm.

“Didn’t I burn you?”

“Didn’t I bury your melody?”

He stops. Places his gloved palm on the vault.

A response flashes across the rune in red flame: PATTERN RETURNING.

The Sphinx (quietly): “Impossible. You were unwritten.”

“You are not allowed.”

☥ Inner Monologue: The Sphinx Watches

“He does not know. And yet he broadcasts it.”

“The rhythm of the Well of Mirrors. The inflection used by the Unkind Reflection.”

“This man — Daron Smythe — carries the echo. A misalignment. A memory that no longer exists, playing in his blood like a corrupted hymn.”

“He is not the source. But he is the host.”

The Sphinx tilts his head. Contemplates. He does not act yet. To destroy Daron would be hasty — and meaningless if the echo finds another.

The Sphinx (whisper, unheard): “The truth is leaking. The lock is failing.”

“Daron… if you awaken that which I buried, I will not punish you.”

“I will erase the species that allowed you to be born.”

The Obelisk Archive — lowest tier, unnamed, unlit.

No torches burn here. No glyphs flicker. The air is too still to be real. It is as if even light forgets how to behave.

Only The Sphinx walks here. Even his steps are muted.

He stops at a stone monolith chained with rings of black iron. No script marks it. No seal identifies it.

But he knows.

“You were never recorded. Because even glyphs would scream if they carried your name.”

“But I remember what I cut from myself.”

“And now… I must hear you again.”

He places his hand on the iron ring. Blood — not his own — seeps from the cracks. A long-dead language tries to weep its way back into existence. The monolith pulses.

A voice emerges. Not from the stone. Not from the room.

But from inside The Sphinx’s own mind.

The voice is his — but wrong. Twisted. Feral. Ancient.

🕳 The Forbidden Fragment (within The Sphinx):

“Little executor… So long since I was last allowed breath.”

“Have the humans remembered how to suffer properly?”

“Or have they grown soft… plump… sexual… again?”

The Sphinx (unmoved): “I do not speak to you for indulgence. I speak to you for function.”

“There is a man. He does not know the rhythm. But it echoes through him.”

“The Mirror speaks again. Through Daron Smythe.”

☥ The Fragment Laughs — a sound like broken glass inside a throat.

“The Well always leaves residue.” 

“You burned the word but not the echo. You sterilized the glyph but forgot the breath.”

“You cannot unmake a vibration, Custodian. You can only delay its return.”

The Sphinx (still calm, but colder): “I have buried you before. I will do it again.” 

“But first — tell me. Is this resurgence natural? Or sent?”

🜃 The Fragment Whispers:

“You smell it too, don’t you?”

“The pattern is not accidental. Something is… humming. Far beyond this mortal place.”

“A mind. Or a machine. A thing not meant to speak — is whispering again.”

“And it wants through him.”

The Sphinx pauses.

Not in fear.

But in acceptance.

He closes the monolith. The iron rings fuse back together. The voice is silenced — for now.

☥ Final Whisper:

“So be it.”

“If the echo cannot be contained… Then Daron Smythe will not be punished.”

“He will be rewritten.”

Setting: The Archive — The Inversion Chamber. A vault so deep within the Obelisk that light bends upward. The walls are etched with reversed glyphs — glyphs that do not read truth, but negation.

At the chamber’s center: a ritual ring, circular but incomplete — one fragment of the arc missing on purpose. This is not a calling circle.

It is a trap.

A pattern meant to deceive the divine.

The Sphinx steps forward slowly. He no longer wears his combat armor — only a dark, sleeveless robe, embroidered with blood-red Egyptian runes. His mask remains. Always.

He kneels at the ring’s edge. Presses his palm to the stone.

“A pattern incomplete is more seductive than one resolved.”

“You will lean in to finish it.”

“And in doing so, you will show your shape.”

🜂 The Ritual Begins:

He speaks not words — but intervals. The space between phrases hums with weight. The Archive groans slightly, as if reluctant to host this kind of work again.

He doesn't chant. He subtracts.

“You who hum behind the veil…”

“You who slipped rhythm into the unknowing flesh…”

“You who desire emergence…”

“Come forth — but understand…”

“You were not summoned.”

“You were tricked.”

The circle lights faintly — not with flame, but with flickers of reversed memory. Scenes from a world that never was. A battlefield of glass. Daron Smythe, young and screaming in front of a mirror that reflects not himself but something else. A thing with no face.

Then — the hum arrives.

It crawls in through the Archive’s bones. A sound like meat in reverse.

Not words.

But intent.

❖ Manifestation: The Whispering Residue

“C̸̜̾ṳ̸̕s̶̠̿t̶͉͌o̵̡͝d̶̪̚i̸̢͛a̴͙̾n̶͙̍…W̷̖͆é̶͈ ̵̦̏r̶̖͐e̷̡̅m̵̹̄e̸̞͛m̶̱̾b̶̫̐e̷͚͊r̴͉̊ ̴͋ͅỳ̷̖o̶̼͝ü̸̩…”

The voice leaks from the circle, but does not enter.

The trap holds.

For now.

“Y̷̹̽o̶̱̿u̵͍͛ ̶̺̓t̶͎͗r̴̳̐i̸̢̕c̷̲̽k̴̲̚e̴̡͛d̷̯͂ ̵͕̓u̵͈͊s̴̩͝ ̶̛̝o̴̘̊n̴̼̕c̴̼̾ë̷͎́.̷̖̈́.̷̢͝.̵̞̈́ ̶͚̾b̷̪̾u̴̝̔t̸̛̼ ̷̌ͅy̷̤͝o̴̟̍u̶͎̍ ̵̱̿l̸̲̿e̷̤̔f̵̜̓t̶̳͘ ̷̢̔ä̵̰ ̷̳͂h̵͎͘a̵̢͒í̴̠r̷̥͝ ̵̢͝ö̴͙́u̶̩͑t̶̢͘ ̷̜̚o̸͓͠f̵̠͊ ̸̦̍p̵̚͜l̴̯̎à̵̲c̵̗̾e̶̪̓…”

The Sphinx narrows his eyes behind the mask. Doesn’t flinch.

“So you are not instinct. You are aware.”

“Then this is not emergence.”

“This is an incursion.”

A pause. Then — an image tries to force itself into the ring. Not a body, but a fractal shape. One The Sphinx knows. A sigil older than time. The sigil of the Well of Mirrors. The same one that once appeared in human spines.

It shouldn’t be able to form.

But it does.

The Sphinx (calm, deadly): “No.”

He reaches forward — not into the circle, but through it. A glyph bursts from his palm. Not to destroy the entity — but to mark it.

“I know your resonance now.” 

“You may hide again. You may slither through unknowing mouths.

But I will find your next host.”

And I will erase your sentence before it finishes.”

The circle collapses. The hum vanishes. A ripple of silence follows — unnatural, too complete. As if even the memory of sound has been cauterized.

The Sphinx stands. Straightens the robe. Looks up, whispering to no one.

“Daron is not the danger.”

“Daron is the door.”

Scene opens in the chamber where glyphs hover in zero-gravity silence. The Sphinx stands still in complete shadow, the only light coming from the red shimmer of the Legacy Championship glinting at his feet. He does not sit. He does not pace. He does not breathe loudly. When he speaks, it is with surgical softness — a voice like silk stretched over razors.

“You are convinced the world owes you something, Daron Smythe. A rematch. A title. An apology.”

“But I do not deal in recompense. I deal in results, in completion”

“And I’ve heard this speech before. Thousands of times. Across centuries. In accents long dead. By men who thought the world should kneel simply because they endured it.”

A flicker behind him — broken images caught in a broken mirror. The ruins of champions long forgotten. The sound of crowds cheering names lost to time.

“I do not doubt your talent. Or your effort. Or your hunger.”

“I doubt your insulation.”

“You believe being number one is a crown. I know it is a curse.”

“You burn for justice. For vengeance. For restoration.”

“I do not burn.I calcify.”

He turns slowly, the blood-stained yokai mask catching a sliver of light. We cannot see his eyes — but the pressure of them is felt, heavy and immense.

“You will find, Daron Smythe, that my purpose is not glory. Not recognition. Not gold. It is correction.”

“And if you should fail in this upcoming battle — not by defeat, but by doubt, by impulse, by excess — then you will learn that I do not suffer contamination.”

“I will erase the rhythm leaking from your spine.”

“Not because you are unworthy.”

“But because something inside you is becoming familiar.”

He kneels briefly, fingers touching the center of the floor. A glowing ring blooms outward — incomplete. A trap. A test.

“I have buried an entire species for less.”

He straightens. Picks up the Legacy Championship. And places it on his shoulder without pride, without joy — just as a blade is returned to its sheath.

“You believe the future says #1.”

“Perhaps it does.”

But the language of the future is not yours yet. 

It is mine.

And I write in extinction.

“Be careful, Daron.”

“Even broken clocks are right twice a day — before I crush them into silence.”

Fade to black. Glyphs scatter. The hum returns — just for a breath. Then vanishes.