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.

---

3x Maximum Promos, 2500 Word Limit

View full promo

[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.

The scene opens in silence — not quiet, but a silence so deep it feels imposed. A void where even echoes are afraid. The Temple of Correction, post-training. The Sphinx stands before a long obsidian slab lined with glistening rivulets of blood and sweat. Behind him, the training machines are still humming, cooling, exhaling steam like slumbering warbeasts. He does not turn to face the camera. He speaks softly, as if addressing the walls themselves.

THE SPHINX: "Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you."

A pause.

"Not in the ring. Not in performance. Not for the crowd or cheer.What I have done... is witness. I saw you. Each of you.”

He turns, the yokai mask still streaked with old, dried blood. His voice remains calm, modulated, almost indulgent.

"You humans do love a good lie, don’t you? You always have preferred the story, and loathed the truth of things."

He walks slowly down the corridor of the gym, fingers trailing along the stone walls.

"Eric Herrera."

"Champion. Heir. Corporate construct. You speak with the cadence of inheritance, the lazy entitlement of someone who has never been erased and rebuilt. You carry a belt. That does not mean you carry weight."

A beat.

"When I step through those ropes, I do not see your name, Eric. I see a placeholder. A thing meant to keep the world warm until its rightful destruction returns. I will not take your title. I will correct it."

He stops, now standing before an old rusted fireman’s helmet bolted to the wall like a trophy. His voice lowers into something resembling amusement.

"Napalm Steele."

"Firestarter. Painchild. You wear your past like armor, thinking irony is protection from consequence. But the truth is simpler. You are ash in waiting. You mistake chaos for power, but chaos without conviction is merely smoke. You are loud. Wild. Disposable."

A slow tilt of his masked head. Almost... pity.

"You scream 'Can you take the heat?' like it means something. Let me clarify: The answer is yes. I have walked through stars that have forgotten their own names. Your fire is a campfire to a god."

He moves now, boots echoing. Then he stops again. This time, in front of a pristine pair of amateur wrestling shoes in a glass case. A relic, untouched.

"Ethan Murphy."

"So much heart. So much effort. So much... story. You trained. You traveled. You learned the rules. You fight like the world owes you a moment. But Ethan, dear child, no one is watching. They will use you. Cheer for you. And then bury you beneath a newer, younger, brighter myth. Because that’s what your heroes are, aren’t they? Lies. Stories. Candy-coated truth wrappers."

A faint hiss, almost like steam leaking from a broken pipe.

"Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies. You want to be lied to. To be coddled like children. How vile a concept that is."

A moment of stillness. And then, he slowly places his blood-cracked hand against the wall. Glyphs glow faintly under his palm.

"I look inside myself and see my heart is black. No colours anymore, I want them all to turn black. Listen up. Listen up. There’s a devil in the church. Keep your secrets in the shadows... and you will be sorry."

A final beat.

"Madison Square Garden..."

His voice is little more than a whisper now.

"A temple of false memory. A cathedral of noise. But even your temples can be desecrated."

A long pause. Then, softly, with dry Kiwi inflection and amused malice:

"You lot scurry well. Like ants. Quite cute, really. Until the magnifying glass comes out."

Back inside the Temple of Correction, deep within the vaults known only to The Sphinx, lies a hollow chamber lit only by the ember-glow of runes etched into the stone. The Sphinx sits on a throne made of broken championship belts — fragments of legacy melted together into a jagged sculpture of irrelevance.

THE SPHINX: "You reward them with gold. I reward them with memory. But memory is fragile."

He gestures and one of the belts cracks — right down the middle. The pieces fall into darkness.

"Eric... Napalm... Ethan... All of you were given names, stories, paths. But I am not here to respect your paths. I am here to burn the map. To remove the coordinates from your souls. To remind the world... that gods do not share the spotlight. They destroy it."

Fade to silence. Then a final whisper:

"Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you. I’ve ended your relevance... before it began."

Empty. No fans. No chants. No lights. The camera pans through the vacant halls of Madison Square Garden. Every banner hangs lifeless. The ring is centered like a forgotten altar. The Sphinx walks slowly down the aisle, boots echoing across polished floors, dragging his hand along the guardrails like he’s tracing the veins of a corpse.

THE SPHINX: "They call this The Mecca. The Garden. But I smell mildew and memory. I smell the rot of nostalgia dressed as reverence."

He climbs into the ring and stands dead center. He does not pose. He simply... exists.

"This is where mortals come to chase their place in the pantheon. I do not chase. I simply return."

He looks down at the mat.

"Do you see how thin the canvas is? All that separates you from ruin... is fabric."

Beat.

"Eric... Daron... You stand beside me. But do not mistake proximity for immunity. You are my partners for a match. Not my brothers. Not my kin. If you stumble — If you falter — You will vanish. Just like the others. A forgotten frame in a broken film reel. A footnote beneath a monument."

The camera closes in. There is no background. Just the mask, stained and still.

THE SPHINX: "You, out there. The ones watching. Consuming. Pretending to care. You love your gladiators. Your doomed heroes. You chant their names. You print their shirts. And when they fall, you move on. You are not innocent. You are not detached. You are part of this. Every lie told in that ring is a lie you wanted. So do not weep when they break. Do not cry when they fade. Do not claim you did not know. You did. You just didn’t care."

[Scene: The Chamber of Regret – Where Wings Were Given]

An echo chamber of starlight and stone. The Sphinx stands before a fractured mirror. Behind him: two long, deep scars etched down his back, old and unhealed.

THE SPHINX: "I had wings once. Not feathers, not light. But forged wings. Eldritch steel and starfire. They gave them to me in the Genesis Chamber — my father, The Obsidian Architect, whose voice bent gravity. My mother, The Maw Between Worlds, who bore storms as children. Their union spawned many things. I was... one of the more palatable results."

A flicker. For the briefest moment, his human face slips away. The yokai mask cracks with glowing seams, revealing a warped, angular visage beneath — obsidian skin carved with red runes, eyes like coals inside a dying sun. The face of something never meant to be loved. Then it closes again, seamless once more.

"My siblings? Ah... do not speak their names. One is teeth without a mouth. Another, a weaver of plagues. A third still sleeps beneath the lunar sea. I, however, was the one who stood. And so I took the blades to my own wings. Not for humility. For clarity."

He presses his hand to the broken mirror.

"They said I was made to rule. I chose instead... to correct."

[Scene: A Stirring Beneath the Void]

The stars bend. Time recoils. In a place without a name — a cathedral buried beneath entropy — old things awaken. Stone cradles crack open. Limbs long-forgotten twitch with sudden hunger.

A mouth opens in a moonless cave, but there are no lips, only rows upon rows of jagged, gnashing teeth — a voice howls like dying suns.

A swarm of locusts scream in unison, forming the silhouette of a plague-weaver — female, perhaps, once. Her laughter curdles the void.

And beneath the lunar sea, something moves. Slow. Colossal. Dreaming of apocalypse.

VOICE (Unseen): "Brother... we heard your signal. The severing of wings was loud... so very loud."

The Sphinx, elsewhere, opens his eyes. He does not smile. He does not speak. But the camera catches the briefest movement behind his mask — as though something inside him is stirring too.

[Scene: Beneath the Skin of the World]

Deep in the folds between dimensions, where time drips instead of flows, a chamber of immeasurable size unfolds. It is made of bone and glass, light and anguish. Stone altars crack. Eyes open in the dark.

A swarm of locusts coalesces into the Weeper of Plagues — once his sister, now a being made of disease and famine, wrapped in a mourning veil of stitched flesh. Her laughter sounds like coughing children and funeral drums.

A mouth opens in the air — no face, only jagged rows of endless teeth, each tooth inscribed with names never meant to be known. The Maw of Names — his brother, the oldest.

The room grows cold. The Sphinx walks forward. The others do not attack. They kneel. Not in submission — but in reunion.

WEEPER OF PLAGUES: "You finally called, brother. The rot spreads again. Shall we prune the garden together?"

MAW OF NAMES: "It is time. You wear the face of a man. But you remember who you are."

The Sphinx removes the yokai mask. Not to reveal the man — but to reveal the god underneath.

A snarling, rune-carved creature of judgment, a silhouette of execution dressed in midnight and purpose.

THE SPHINX: "I do not stand alone anymore. The correction will not be swift. It will be systematic.Let them watch. Let them tremble. Let them remember… This world does not belong to them. It belongs to us."

The siblings rise. The stars dim. Correction begins.

[Scene: The Genesis Chamber — Where They Were Born]

The chamber is cathedral-like in its scale, but older than any church ever built. A vast hollow carved out of raw cosmic bone, lit by the bioluminescent veins of some slumbering titanic lifeform woven into the walls. There is no door. The entrance is a tear in space itself. Inside, all is still — until three forms materialize into view.

The Sphinx stands tall, clad in black robes that seem stitched from shadows. Beside him, his siblings: The Weeper of Plagues and The Maw of Names. They move in unnatural synchrony, as though guided by a music only they can hear.

Before them, a vast throne, not carved but grown — a living mass of obsidian roots, runes shifting across its surface like oil over water. Upon it sits their mother: The Maw Between Worlds.

Her form is feminine, only in shape. Her body is composed of writhing black tendrils and stormclouds; eyes open and close across her skin, each eye whispering a secret when it blinks. Her voice, when it comes, is not sound — but pressure in the chest, like drowning in gravity.

THE MAW BETWEEN WORLDS: "You have returned, my children. Have you come to finish what I began?"

From the shadows behind her, another shape unfolds — larger still, draped in armor of black crystal and nebula fire. The Obsidian Architect. Their father. His face is featureless — a mask of stone etched with shifting equations, constantly solving and breaking themselves anew. Every word he speaks is a law of physics rewritten.

THE OBSIDIAN ARCHITECT: "You are the only one of your kind who learned restraint, Sphinx. The others burned, consumed, devoured. But you corrected. You erased."

The Sphinx stands before them, unflinching.

THE SPHINX: "Because restraint is clarity. And clarity is control. You taught me that chaos has a structure — and if I know the pattern, I can break it. This world is broken. I will fix it. And I will use the family you built to do so."

The Weeper giggles, rot dripping from her eyes. The Maw of Names opens his mouthless form, revealing the sound of every scream that’s ever existed — played backward in harmony.

THE MAW BETWEEN WORLDS: "And when the fixing is done, little Sphinx — what then? Will you rebuild the lie? Or will you leave only the silence?"

The Sphinx does not answer. Instead, he steps forward. Into the living floor. Into the heart of the Genesis Chamber.

THE SPHINX: "You made monsters. Now let them work." 

A column of light falls from the ceiling, impossibly bright and impossibly cold. The siblings rise together, no longer gods apart — but instruments of a shared will.

The chamber begins to tremble. Not collapse — awaken.

Somewhere far away, in Madison Square Garden, a light flickers. A camera feed glitches. A shudder passes through the concrete, like memory crawling back into the skin of the world.

Correction continues.

[Scene: The Genesis Chamber — The Family Reunited]

The chamber breathes.

It groans with the sound of celestial metal flexing under pressure. Carvings pulse with light not of this world. The Sphinx, now seated upon a throne of petrified knowledge, watches as his siblings step forward from shadowed corridors born of distant screams.

The Weeper of Plagues arrives first, sobbing trails of rot that curl into blossoms of fungus. She kneels, her bleeding tears forming a mosaic of disease at her brother’s feet.

THE WEEPER OF PLAGUES: "Brother... my clarity. You always knew how the dying ends. Let me weep for your future..."

From above descends The Maw of Names, his formless figure displacing silence. He glides toward The Sphinx, pauses, then bows his invisible head. Teeth chatter across his surface, whispering lost names, forgotten kings, censored truths.

Then, from opposite ends of the chamber, their parents emerge.

The Maw Between Worlds, her veil of tendrils trailing constellations and nightmare winds, passes through a slit in space that bleeds black ichor.

The Obsidian Architect coalesces from the geometry of the air, assembling himself from sharp symmetries and burning theorems. He speaks only once.

THE OBSIDIAN ARCHITECT: "The shape is complete. Begin the correction."

The Sphinx does not rise from his throne. Instead, he speaks with certainty — quiet, coiled thunder in a cavern of dead gods.

THE SPHINX: "They have mistaken silence for absence. They thought memory was safe. But now we gather again..."

He lifts a single hand. The Weeper’s tears halt in mid-air. The Maw of Names retracts his radius. Even their parents grow still.

THE SPHINX: "I will erase their monuments. Not with rage. But with precision. We will not return to rule — we will return to remove."

The chamber begins to throb with heat. A low vibration rumbles through its marrow. The floor opens into a deep rift, and through it, the mortal realm can be glimpsed — Madison Square Garden. A wrestling ring, unknowing. Waiting.

THE MAW BETWEEN WORLDS: "And when they beg for new gods?"

THE SPHINX: "We’ll give them silence."

Their forms dissolve into trails of dark energy, slithering upward into the fissures of light and flesh.

The family is reunited.

Correction continues.

[Scene: The Revelation – Interview in Shadow]

Location: A small, dark studio lit by a single spotlight. A mortal interviewer — unnamed, visibly tense — sits across from The Sphinx, whose silhouette looms, motionless. His voice is quiet, precise. The Yokai mask remains on.

INTERVIEWER: "There’ve been... rumors. About something more. About your origin, your—your family. Can you confirm any of that?"

THE SPHINX (deadpan): "Yes."

A long silence. The interviewer blinks, nervously gesturing for more.

THE SPHINX: "They have awakened. My blood. My shape. My lineage."

He tilts his head just slightly.

THE SPHINX: "My mother is the Maw Between Worlds — she births imbalance, a veil of chaos that devours pattern. Her touch is extinction."

THE SPHINX: "My father is the Obsidian Architect, builder of the paradox, the geometer of ruin. Every thought he has creates a weapon."

INTERVIEWER (softly): "And your siblings... they’re real too?"

THE SPHINX (nods): "My sister, the Weeper of Plagues, weeps pathogens. Her love is decay. She mourns everything — especially the living."

THE SPHINX: "My brother, the Maw of Names, devours identity. He speaks no words. He devours yours."

The interviewer stiffens.

INTERVIEWER: "Why you? Why are you... here, restrained, when they weren’t?"

THE SPHINX: "Because I was born not to indulge. I was made to complete. I do not rage. I do not rot. I do not forget. I cut."

He leans in just slightly.

THE SPHINX: "I am the only one they trusted to stay awake. To observe. To decide. I was raised under pressure. Where they were scattered, I studied."

THE SPHINX: "My father gave me one directive: Restraint is the lever of annihilation. Wait. Observe. Correct."

Another pause. The interviewer’s hands tremble.

INTERVIEWER: "And now that they’re back? What happens next?"

THE SPHINX (without hesitation): "We do not rule. We do not reign. We remove."

He stands, mask catching the light just enough to suggest something inhuman beneath it. He does not look back.

THE SPHINX: "You asked for truth. Now carry it. And see if your mind survives."

📡 Fan Reactions: Online Chaos

🧵 Reddit Thread: “That Sphinx Interview Was NOT Kayfabe, Right?”

u/WrestleGospel420:

I thought I was watching a gimmick interview and then he said “my mother is extinction and my father is paradox” and I swear to god my screen flickered.Bro that wasn't acting. That was… a confession.

u/BarbedWireBeauty:

“We don’t reign. We remove.”

Is this even a wrestling promo anymore or did AWS accidentally book an eldritch correctional force?

u/Madison_Marks:

The fact that he never raises his voice? That’s what gets me. He doesn’t need to. He talks like a funeral speaks.

Fade to black.

"What does it take to be a champion" - Eric Herrera

Plane Ride to Ward PT1: The Chaotic Musing of The Devil

July 12th 2025

The Black List Mafia were currently on their way to New York. They had rented a private jet, and were accompanied by Leon and Lacey's father, Randy Roberts.

Leon himself though, was not in any good mood. He was still fuming from his loss from the previous Episode of Ward. Though he might have looked down, the fiery look in his eyes was an indicator he was going to enjoy his next match, regardless of outcome.

Monica walked up beside him, with a glass of scotch. She then got her phone out. Leon had asked her to record him at this moment, as he now had a drink, and his thoughts better organized.

Leon: Well AWS. Much as I would declare my usual introduction with 'Raise The Horns'...I'm in no fucken mood to entertain you with that. No. For somehow, even with the rage fuelling me, Drake Nygma still got the win over me. HIM! The fucken false god. Makes me fucken sick that such an imbecile was actually able to overcome me.

Of course, there is the fact that I wasn't at my full strength. Afterall, I had thrashed a few other names in that Death Match Gauntlet. That is the only reason why I haven't had the streets run red with blood. For at the very least, If I was the fresh one, then you might as well have started to call Nygma, as Christopher Reeve. Because I would have made sure to trample him up big time, he would never fucken walk again!

Leon's nosed flared in pure anger. He took a deep breath, calming himself. Leon took a swig of his coths. It took a couple second for him to consume, as he found the scotch to be quite good.

Leon: However, the fact is, I cannot, and will not allow such folly to go unpunished. Drake Nygma. The real fuckden devil will collect what is owed, and I'm going to collect it in all of the blood I can squeeze out of you.

Leon begins to chuckle, his madness once again being emulated on full display. He took another swig of his Scotch, before cotinuing.

Leon: It's funny. We yet again cross paths. Another chance to tie you up and tenderize you like a slaughtered pig! For once again, we main event Ward, once again at war. This time it's a six man tag team match. One definitely to watch, just for the two of us alone, clashing again.

Yes...that alone will be worth it all. Even if I HAVE to let my tag team partners in on the action. That is, if only to make sure you get into my clutches. Because as well all fucken know, the main event for Ward is indeed a six man...that's fucken right...MAN....not fucken 'person'....MAN...tag team match!

Both Leon and Monica began to laugh at what Leon was doing. They were sick and tired of all the feminist woke crap that seemed to be everywhere.

Leon: Oh I could easily go into that fucken bullshit, but to be honest, I don't feel like wasting my time with that crap. I'm not going to entertain the billions of dumbasses who can't handle basic common sense.

Instead my focus must be on this match. As you all know, I'm teaming up with Napalm Steele and Ethan Murphy. As for who I'm facing? Well in case it ain't fucken obvious, one of them is Drake Nygma. The others, are the current champ, Eric Herrera, and the cockless motherfucker that hasn't earned the right to challenge me for MY Intercontinental title, Daron Smythe.

Leon's demeanor suddenly went from enjoying the chaos he was planning, to just outright annoyed.

Leon: On that note, who's fucken dick did Daron Smythe have to suck in order to get a shot at my championship? Seriously, what has he done?

Sure he may have had that phantom title shot that can be used any time, considering you keep on fucken talking about it like you're some alcoholic, washed up third string who actually believes that had you got things your way, things would be better.

Spoiler alert you little cocksucker, it would not have made any fucken difference, whatsoever!

You call yourself number one. Well guess what Numero Uno...who was it that made it to the final match of the Death Match Gauntlet on the last episode of Ward? As I recall, it wasn't you Daron. In fact, I'm trying to recall who-OH WHO THE FUCK AM I KIDDING?! IT WAS ME!

Leon put his Scotch down, as he got up. He then took off his shirt, showing the cuts and bruises he attained from the death match gauntlet, along with the Intercontinental Championship belt wrapped around his waist.

Leon: Me! The Intercontinental champion. The ONLY, Intercontinental champion in AWS history! The title you are challenging for at Beach Break. Don't even fucken think for a second that I'm going to let you, or anything take this away.

I'm going to redefine who challenges me for this title after Beach Break. There might already be a couple 'hardcore' tier level titles, but I'm going to make sure that the Intercontinental title requires blood sacrifices in order to challenge for it. What will you do Daron? Not a fucken thing.

You couldn't do anything as Eric Hererra would quite literally, and legally I might add...steal what was the AWS world title, until it got renamed back to the Ultra Violence title, from you Daron Smythe. Speaking of which, I wonder just how you'll get along with your partners, considering all your history.

Best part is, no matter how loud you talk about being the true ace of AWS, or some shit like that...we all know it belongs to those other two. Make no mistake, you do have that phantom claim, as I mentioned before. But don't get to greedy yet. Who fucking says you'll even be making it to Beach Wars!

Leon's eyes began to flash a bit, before he smirked.

Leon: You even mentioned up crossing paths on assault before. I don't recall any of that to be honest. Or at least nothing worth mentioning. Make no mstake, had assault stayed around, that would have inevitably been different. But as it stands, whatever might have happened on Assault, will simply have to happen on Ward. And I can guarantee you this Daron, you're not going tio be looking like the Ace you claim to be. Though it will prob ably apply better to your sex drive once I'm through with you!

But moving on....Everyone knows my vile hatred for Drake Nygma, so i'll spare you the details of wht's going to happen. If he's lucky, he'll live. But once I get him in my claws, I will rip him to shreds, and I'll make sure to do so infront of the world. Especially for Eric and Daron.

But what about my partners? Well they better know their place.

Leon then grabbed his glass of scotch, moving it around for a moment.

Leon: It is a bit amusing to think about really. We have Napalm Steele as one of my partners. Not going to lie, it's actually a cool sounding name to use. Unfortunately that's probably the only thing that actually makes sense in that name. Because Napalm melts right through steel, as you all know.

Then again from what I understand, that just how you like it. It's honestly refreshing to see a fellow psychopath beyond the Black List Mafia, who wants to burn everything. Well Napalm...you and I might just get along quite well. If anything, I can give you the direction to channel your rage. To direct the flames of fury that I know is ready to ignite, towards burning down everything down in our way.

Yes. I have been thinking about you. Originally brushed you off, no word of lie. But I'm glad I decided to look into the finer details. I hope you understand though Steele, who you must never cross. Never, EVER, get on my bad side. You'll understand why.

Leon stood up and stretched, before he sat back down. He ran his fingers through his hair, before looking back at the Monica.

Leon: Now my other partner Ethan Murphy on the other hand, well there was no need to do a double take. He does has his credentials. Somebody who I no doubt has the experience to hang with the rest of the main event. Somebody who I'm counting on to do their part. To prove why he was a former two time World, slash Ultra Violence Champion. That in my mind, is exactly what I need. A former champion who is still hungry. Who wants to prove that he hasn't lost a step. To prove that he will be holding the top gold again.

To that Ethan, I say this. Do prove yourself. Do get violent. Get fucken nasty, and be ready to do whatever it takes. However, if you so much as direct it at me in any way shape or form....your efforts will be wasted.

For I will feast on your soul, and permanently cripple you. Right there, on the spot!

Leon began to smirk again, before rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He takes a quick swig of his scotch.

Leon: Of course, can't forget about the champion. If I may be so courteous...

Leon rolled his eyes, and did a blatantly exaggerated bow, putting his sarcasm on full display.

Leon: My name, is Leon Roberts. I am the Devil's Titan, and Godfather, slash President, of the Black List Mafia. What does all that mean for you champ? It means that the devil has actually arrived, and he's no longer holding himself back. I'm here because I crave destruction. I get off on the pain that humanity casts upon itself and this mudball, and I especially love it when people who think they have it all wind up begging for mercy at my feet, only for me to take their life away.

Now I know you're a very busy man. One that could very well have had a much bigger stakes beach match, if it weren't for the fact that even though I had the fight and will to continue, Drake managed to get the better of me only because I had been massacring the rest of the competition.

Speaking of which Drake, you're fucken welcome. When and if you take the title, Expect me to be the one to be your worst nightmare. I will demand my title shot, because unlike your other partner Daron, I've actually earned my my right, especially after last week. Inspite of what the result might say.

Point remains, I will not be stopping anytime soon. All my goals, and ambitions will be fulfilled. Come Ward Eric Hererra, you're going to see just what kind of bullet you missed for beach wars. There is nothing i won't do to get my way. So cling to your gold champ, because should you survive your partners, I'm next. You won't be able to survived against me when I take the Ultra Violence Championship. As for Ward, well you're gonna witness just a small example of what I will do.

Leon smirked, as he downed the last bit of his Scotch. He got back up, moving into the aisle. Monica made sure the Leon was still front and center.

Leon: That goes for all. The Twenty Fifth anniversary of Ward is a perfect place for creating some memories, and leaving everyone with some trauma that they will never recover from. Because as of now, AWS belong to only one group. And much like how Carlotta and Lacey said it earlier, I want to all say it with us.

Monica then moved herself into the scene, having flipped the view and screen over. The shoot now looked like a selfie video.

Monica: Black....List.....MAFIA!

Leon: OH HELL YEAH!!!!

Leon then turned his head, and gave Monica a passionate kiss. Monica then stopped the recording, knowing that what was coming next might just be bit to explicit for regular viewers.

Ethan Murphy: I don’t know if I told you all about this before but I don’t like tag team matches. It’s not what I got into this business to do, I didn’t become a wrestler to be in the tag team scene. I like to wrestle and not have to depend on anybody else but me in the middle of the ring. Be in charge of myself y'know?. But that doesn’t mean I’m a bad tag partner and I can’t play along. You can trust me to play nice and get along with whatever tag partner or partners I have. Bonus if I don't like my opponents. Especially with what I got to deal with in this Six Man Tag Team Elimination Match at Monday Night Ward because this definitely qualifies. I’m teaming up with Napalm Steele and  Leon Roberts against Eric Herrera, Drake Nygma, and Daron Smythe.

In the comfort of his locker room Ethan made it clear that tag team matches aren't his thing but not because he wasn’t a team player but because it wasn't what he usually did. It was out of the “red rocket's” comfort zone. But Ethan was a versatile star in the Asylum Wrestling Society plus he could be trusted to at the very least pull his weight. But that wasn’t the only reason why he was looking forward to this particular match. He respected Napalm Steele and tolerated Leon Roberts. He also hated Eric, Drake, and Daron equally. But why take my word for it?

Ethan Murphy: I suppose I've been in worse matches. Napalm and I used to square off back in the day when I was naive but now I'm smarter now, I know how to win by any means necessary. Even when fighting clean, which I damn sure know how to do if I have to, or just doing what I have to do to win Napalm I got this. You can trust me and I hope I can do the same with you. And that goes double for you Leon… Unlike Napalm we've been toe to toe recently dude. Now I know you got skills and you're no joke in the ring but for our sakes go after our three opponents like you used to go after me. If we're on the same page we got this match won.

Ethan wanted to cement the fact that even though his two tag team partners for the six man elimination tag team match at Ward were old enemies of his he could be trusted. Even if the Massachusetts native had problems with Leon and Napalm in the past and he had a recent reputation of being an arrogant prick there was no question of his loyalty. But his question was that could they be loyal in return to him against three opponents he loathed

Ethan Murphy: Eric Herrera, Daron Smythe, Drake Nygma…There hasn't been three men in my life who have pissed me off more! Literally almost every moment of misery I've had in the AWS can be traced back to what you have done to me. The victories over me, the times you outsmarted me, I know in my heart I can beat you three in a one on one match but in a tag match? A six man Elimination one? When I have to be the best version of a team player? Damn this is complicated. Only…if only because I have to look out for my two tag partners while kicking your asses. Leon, Napalm, apologies if I don't leave much for you to work on. This may be just another match to you but to me it's personal.

And in came the depth for this Ward match with some personal passion. Leon and Napalm weren't going into this tag battle with the same mentality that Ethan had. Solely because he was competing against not one, not two, but three hated foes of his. To the point where this was a grudge match for Ethan and he might steal their thunder.

Ethan Murphy: So at Ward I guarantee that my team. Me, Leon, and Napalm will win against Eric, Drake and Daron. I don't know how, we'll talk about that later. But we will win because I'm sick and tired of those three making a fool out of me.

Ethan talked a lot about being a good team player and someone his comrades for the match could trust but his own allegiance was not to them directly but to hurt his opponents. Which was stronger? Tune in to Ward to find out!