Post by ENIGMA on Oct 5, 2023 4:03:49 GMT -5
✠
got a secret
can you keep it?
swear, this one you'll save
better lock it in your pocket
takin' this one to the grave
✠
Rock Hill, NY ||| September 26, 2023
(off camera)
(off camera)
These crash and burn cycles were starting to become a bad habit but the urgency to make a difference in the twilight hours that remained was constantly breathing down his neck. Now that he'd had that taste of fame, there was no desire to slink back into the shadows. He was committed to seeing this through to the end. To finish what had been set in motion when he had chosen to move on from the five boroughs and spread his wings. Japan had been the beginning. He had competed in all of those bucket list countries now. His passport was nearly full.
He had literally gone to Hel and back and lived to tell the tale.
The last thirty-six hours were a strange, surreal blur and by the time Sev had arrived back at their quaint little treehouse in the woods, he could barely remember his own name, let alone the details of the match with Chris Mosh that had led to another championship around his waist. On the heels of that trip to Hel, he'd boarded a Kayfabe Airlines flight for Sin City, arriving just in time to find out the hotel he'd booked had been oversold and his reservation had been cancelled hours before. He'd slipped into the CCPE arena in the wee hours of the morning and found a quiet room – he'd fallen asleep on a couch that had seen better days and had damn near missed the entirety of WGWF Brawl's One Year Anniversary show. The noise of the crowd during the main event had sounded like a tsunami and he'd had just enough time to rush through the backstage labyrinth and make that appearance that was wholly motivated out of spite.
Fuck Peter Vaughn.
He wasn't even aware he said it aloud until he felt the burn in his throat – too much abuse over the last few days. He made it up the steps and fished the key ring from his pocket, leaning heavily against the wall as he tried to focus his blurred vision on the tangled keys in his hand. Finally, he got the right one free and then he was easing over the threshold, feeling the immediate rush of cold air that was more welcome than an embrace and he knew that Elle had probably left it this high for his benefit, knowing he'd be overheated after the long drive.
The day was already hot, amplifying the sticky layer of old sweat that coated his skin – he felt scummy and the cool draft of air on his skin was welcomed with open arms as he let go of the handle of his rolling suitcase, ignoring it when it tipped over the threshold and smacked against the back of his leg. He cocked his head, letting the unadulterated silence wash over him. Unzipping the hoodie he had on, he stripped it off and tossed it in the basket by the door, knowing his wife had left it there specifically for that purpose. The tank he had on underneath followed and then he was shuffling through the kitchen like an old man. Halfway to the fridge, he caught sight of a shadow in his peripheral vision. He turned to look at his reflection in the sliding glass doors that led out onto the deck, seeing the discoloured welt on his ribs that he hadn't realised was even there. Probing it with his finger drew a sharp intake of breath and he dug in deeper, feeling his ribs to make sure nothing was broken – he couldn't remember where the injury had come from. The match with Mosh was hazy. He might have done it to himself when he'd mowed down Vaughn.
Closing his eyes, he rested his palm against the cool glass, waiting out the vertigo that always came after a long trip like this – maybe it was just the damned awareness of the sands of time rushing through that hourglass. The whisper of falling sand was disquieting now, like alien voices promising damnation every time he slowed the pace even slightly. The toll it was taking on his body was mounting and every day he questioned how much time he truly had left.
A gentle touch against his arm pulled him back to reality and he let out the breath he wasn't even aware he'd been holding.
“You look exhausted,” his wife said softly, sliding her hand up that well-muscled bicep to his shoulder. She saw everything in that moment, every new blemish on her husband's body and she felt the ache of all that damage as though it had been done to her. She knew he'd never show it outwardly, never complain.
As if that was all it took, he felt the burning in his dry eyes when they opened, felt the ache in his stiff neck when he turned his head to look at her. Still, he felt the macho need to downplay. “Just in dire need of a shower,” he rasped, a wry chuckle coming on the heels of that admission and he managed a wink for her benefit. “A little ripe from the road, is all.”
“As if I care?” She slipped around in front of him, arms wrapping around his back and she hugged him tight, resting her head against his chest. “Glad you made it back in one piece.”
“Debatable,” Sev denied that without missing a beat, gently kissing her on the forehead. Even wrecked like this, his sense of humour remained intact. “But most of me's here nonetheless.”
She looked up at him, the love she felt written all over her face. LJ didn't see a broken-down husk of a man making a sad grasp at glory. She didn't see a fool who had made too many poor choices over the course of that double-decade career. She saw her best friend in all the world: that passionate and fearsome warrior that the world was finally starting to embrace. It was too little, too late and she hated how much that annoyed her. She wanted to take out billboards, to sing his praises where everyone could hear and it was getting harder and harder to keep those urges in check. She didn't want to overstep, to force him to do something he wasn't ready to. If he wanted help, he would ask. She knew that, even as much as she knew his pride would probably keep him from admitting that weakness even as the pedestal Smash had put him up on started to crumble. And it would. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would set in the west. Shaking her head to banish that train of thought, she let herself shift into caregiver mode instead, gently taking his hand. “C'mon, then. Let's get you cleaned up and into bed where you belong.”
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
Chris Page is a lucky man. The world is his oyster. Everything he touches turns to gold.
LUCK RUNS OUT.
Sure. Page has been lucky in life. In his careers. In his business. How fortunate that he had a wonderful 2023, gallivanting here, there and everywhere else I wasn't. Do I believe I am better? Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt. Am I bitter? Envious? Hardly.
Somehow, Smash knew my innermost poisonous thoughts. He came to me before US vs. THEM began and proposed a blowout match to headline Final Hour 2 – a milestone for the company – one year in business. His champion versus his enemy. I reminded him that if I managed to do what I set out to that night, I would have wins over two of Page's CCPE lackeys under my belt. Two former champions. This could turn into something, if I chose to pursue it. He was smart enough to pick up what I was putting down and he could read that certainty in my face, could see the murderous intent in my eyes. He told me then about Monday Night Melee. Told me about the meetings he'd been having with Page, that he was going to be managing a second show for WGWF. I was floored but not wholly surprised to learn he'd been meeting with the enemy all this time.
CHRIS PAGE IS EVERYWHERE.
INSIDIOUS.
INSIDIOUS.
I did not judge, not then. I wanted to hear the whole story, to learn what Chris Page had promised to draw him in. Alarm bells rang. I wanted to grab him and shake him, to slap him until he woke up to see the writing on the wall. This would spell the end of The Entity. He kept talking. He told me that Final Hour 2 was still happening, that it was going to be HUGE. Beyond that, he was vague. Told me I would have more time to work elsewhere. I did not tell him that I had begun taking matches in New York for XWF. He obviously already knew. So he tried to sell me on the match, to tell me that Page had done nothing but sing my praises since he had seen me competing in Hawaii as that last-minute substitution for Tara Fenix's charity event. How odd that he had never said a kind word to my face. How strange, then, if he thought the world of me and my talents, that the CCPE hadn't been sliding into my DMs late at night with tantalizing offers. If he truly wanted to take out Smash (and The Entity as a whole) by any means necessary, he should have selected me over Miller or Ramsey.
Chris Page versus ENIGMA. Two titans collide. Two champions: DOMINION and WORLD. I could see the picture he was painting, could see my name up on that marquee. I could picture the tears in my wife's eyes as I told her the news. I could see my hand raised in victory, standing over the broken carcass of one of the biggest frauds in the business. I said nothing. I let him lay it all out, pitch it all with the hard sell, thinking that I would balk, telling me that it would sell out in a matter of hours if it were to headline that show. I took offense to that, to the notion that I was no better than Matthew Knox, reneging on promises made and expecting the world to simply forget. I stared a hole in him. The void. The abyss. We remained in a stalemate like that until he broke the silence with a sigh. I told him I resented the supposition planted by Peter Vaughn that I am unreliable, just another flaky Raven. He was quick to apologize, to assure me that the mishap at Madison Square Garden had been forgotten and dismissed. He trusted me completely. Implicitly. I was the chosen one, the favored child – for the first time in my life, I felt that deep to my core, a sense of belonging. He called me his friend. Thanked me for being here since the beginning. I swore my allegiance to follow him wherever. If The Entity were to go on hiatus, I would compete on the show he was going to run for WGWF, despite my abject loathing of the man who would be challenging to reclaim their World Championship.
It always circles back, doesn’t it?
I promised to take care of things, to make sure that our team emerged victorious over the CCPE. He begged me not to come to his aid, no matter how much I wanted to. He told me he could handle his business and I took that at face value because what else do you do when someone places their unwavering trust in you? I bowed my head. I accepted the chains once again, making it my own choice. Always the willing monster. Yes, I have a price. Everyone does.
Do not speculate on my motivations.
And what does Chris Page know about allegiances and loyalty? About my unwavering trust, and my unflinching gaze? About the promises made behind closed doors? What does he know about true friendship?
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
”This isn’t happening,” his voice was rusty, the words uttered with a finality that seemed strange considering the surroundings. He sat in the dark, his back against the wall, watching the paper and ash burn towards his fingertips. Slowly, ever so slowly the orange embers drew closer. If he cared, he could probably feel the heat. He didn't on both counts. He wasn’t sure his wife even knew he’d started up again – he hadn’t done it inside, at least not before today. Always out in the back building or out in the woods, taking the dog for a walk.
He'd been sitting here for hours, amid scattered possessions. Blood trickled sluggishly from his knuckles as he raised the last stub of the cigarette to his lips, drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. The screen on his cell phone was cracked but it was still lit, the screen showing a call log with three missed calls from an unknown number. He called it back, got a message saying the number was for outgoing calls only, but if he wanted to reach the MEDICAL CENTER, to call the main number.
His wife had taken his phone, had insisted on switching it over to silent mode so he could finally get the rest he needed. That had been almost nineteen hours ago.
The glass coffee table lay in pieces in front of him, completely destroyed. Glass glittered on his clothes, catching the light from the flickering lamp that lay on the floor nearby. He crushed out the cigarette on the shard of glass that lay beside his bare foot.
“This isn’t happening,” he said it again, closing his eyes. If he opened them, the message would be gone. The table wasn’t enough. The Ribera jacket was a big enough sacrifice. “What do you want me to do?” His voice was barely above a pained whisper, breaking on every other syllable, “turn myself in? I… you know I can’t do that. They need me here.”
His hand shook as he reached for another cigarette only to find the pack empty. He crumpled the pack, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen as he glared into the dark night beyond the windows. The room was destroyed for the second time in months, the shelves overturned, the books jumbled in piles, spines creased, covers torn. Shredded photographs covered the floor like bizarre confetti, mingling with the stuffing torn from the leather couch. All this destruction had been wrought by his own hands, and still, he felt the pain. The gaping chasm filled him like a black hole, sucking in everything but his anguish. He’d gone from the greatest triumph of his life to the lowest depths in less than twenty-four hours.
Smash is dead. Gone. The Entity is no more.
The last thing he’d sent in that ongoing message chain had been a still shot snapped from a fan’s video of Vaughn crashing to the floor, a look of horror on his face. It had still said “delivered”, not “read” and that was more telling than anything else.
“It’s a mistake. Take me instead. Take Page. Take…” he had almost blurted out his daughter’s name before biting his tongue, as if bargaining with the universe was going to do him any good now. He let his head hang, feeling tears pricking his sinuses. He felt hollow, gutted and exhausted. “This isn’t…” his voice broke as he started to weep silently, his shoulders shaking with the force of his emotions.
He didn’t hear the stairs creak, didn’t notice the hall light come on, wasn't aware that he was no longer alone until her slipper-clad feet crunched on broken glass. He looked up sharply and immediately held up a hand. “Don’t come in here.”
“Sev? I thought someone was breaking in…” she snapped the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light, revealing the chaos in which her husband sat, tears still streaming silently down his face. It was absurd to see a man of his size overcome with this sort of despair, but somehow it was all the more real because of it. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the damage, saw the blood on Sev’s hands and feet. “What..?”
“Fourteen hours ago.” The words came in staccato bursts, “three missed calls and a message. Smash is... dead.”
Immediately, her face felt hot and she felt her shoulders drop as tears immediately filled her eyes. She rushed to defend herself, thinking this was all a way to punish her for that transgression. “I didn’t know, Sev. How could I have known? Please don’t be angry with me. I just wanted you to get some–”
“Stop.” He stood slowly, bracing his bloodied palm against the wall. Every inch of his body ached with weariness as he tried in vain to get his feet back under himself. His blood felt like ice, oozing sluggishly through his veins; his limbs like lead as exhaustion weighed him down. He finally made it upright, ran his hands over his face and up his head, leaving smears of blood like that Kratos warpaint and when his eyes met hers, they spoke tormented volumes, flicking to her face, and skittering away before he revealed too much. His voice was scratchy, deeper than normal. His heart was there on his sleeve, emotions parading across his features as he stared down at the floor.
She found her gaze pulled to the photographs on the floor. What had initially looked like haphazard, wanton destruction was now revealed to be something more systematic. Every image of the two of them had been torn so that she was perfectly preserved. The remnants that were shredded like confetti were all bits of his own image and now she understood. He’d been trying to offer himself instead. That broke her heart more than seeing the tears on his face, than seeing him leaning against the wall as though a stiff wind might knock him over. As though he felt her gaze, he turned and staggered across the room, jerking open the sliding door to step out onto the deck. He was trailing blood across the carpet, oblivious.
“Sev,” she called out his name but he kept going and she darted after him, not caring if she tore her slippers and feet to ribbons. Suddenly she had the irrational thought that he was going to jump – he heard her feet pounding the carpet. Heard the sharp intake of her breath as she pulled up short. He stopped with his hands wrapped around the railing, muscles corded as though he wanted to rip it clean from its moorings, breathing raggedly. He refused to turn around, terrified of what he might see in her green eyes. She touched his hand, tentatively and when he didn’t recoil, she slid her hand up his arm, feeling how badly he was shaking with the emotions he was trying like hell to swallow back. Pressing against his side, she reached up to touch his cheek. With her thumb she wiped away the teardrop on the end of his nose, stroking his face with her palm. A single tear spilled down his cheek, his face a mask of misery as he closed his eyes. Her hand found the back of his head, and she pulled him forward, kissing his lips. He could taste salt, and it was then that he realised she was crying, too.
His knees came unhinged and he sat down hard. She crawled into his lap, burying her head in his chest and they clung to each other as if their lives depended on it. “Death can’t take you,” the words came pouring out – she couldn’t keep them in any longer. “I can’t lose you. Never again. Promise me, Sev. Promise me you’ll never try to make that deal.” Her eyes were full of fire as she pulled back, staring at him. When he said nothing, she smacked him in the chest, vehement. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
I have been gutted. Hemorrhaged and bled out, spilling headlong into despair. I never even knew his legal name. Did you know that? We talked every day and that little fact eluded me. I received no details of a service, no obituary to be found. Just that one message, as cold and clinical as could be.
He just simply vanished. Gone in the blink of an eye. We take things for granted, don't we? These moments. Hold your friends close. Tell them you love them.
I keep waiting for a reply to my message, one that is never coming. I keep thinking of things to show him, things to say. I know he would have loved to hear the rest of the story about Sunday night, about Steve and Amanda. The guilt has rubbed me raw. I never got to say goodbye. He told me to go forth and conquer, to have fun. He knew what I was going to do. He knew I planned to attack Peter Vaughn if he won that championship back and he encouraged me. Told me I deserved that spotlight, even as I conspired to skip the line.
You put your trust in me, Smash. I will not let this be the end. I promise you this.
There are no tears left to cry now. Not an ounce of emotion left to be wrung from my body. There are no words left to say here. I know you, Page.
My eyes have always been open.
I am true to the namesake. You have not cracked the code. I remain unknown, misrepresented and misunderstood. ENIGMA. JUDGE. EXECUTIONER.
Soon THEY will see the ugliness you hold inside, they will watch that sick muck ooze out as I break you in half. I will ensure The Entity is never forgotten.
Here, in this moment, I know peace. I accept my role. I embrace willingly the violence that's to come. I understand now why he told me everything. He knew this would happen. He knew exactly what I would do.
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I will move Hell.
It always circles back, doesn’t it?
I promised to take care of things, to make sure that our team emerged victorious over the CCPE. He begged me not to come to his aid, no matter how much I wanted to. He told me he could handle his business and I took that at face value because what else do you do when someone places their unwavering trust in you? I bowed my head. I accepted the chains once again, making it my own choice. Always the willing monster. Yes, I have a price. Everyone does.
Do not speculate on my motivations.
And what does Chris Page know about allegiances and loyalty? About my unwavering trust, and my unflinching gaze? About the promises made behind closed doors? What does he know about true friendship?
NOTHING.
HE KNOWS EGO.
THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR.
HE KNOWS EGO.
THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR.
MANIPULATION.
LIES.
HE KNOWS NOTHING USEFUL.
ABOUT US.
ABOUT ANYTHING.
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
Rock Hill, NY ||| September 27, 2023
(off camera)
(off camera)
”This isn’t happening,” his voice was rusty, the words uttered with a finality that seemed strange considering the surroundings. He sat in the dark, his back against the wall, watching the paper and ash burn towards his fingertips. Slowly, ever so slowly the orange embers drew closer. If he cared, he could probably feel the heat. He didn't on both counts. He wasn’t sure his wife even knew he’d started up again – he hadn’t done it inside, at least not before today. Always out in the back building or out in the woods, taking the dog for a walk.
He'd been sitting here for hours, amid scattered possessions. Blood trickled sluggishly from his knuckles as he raised the last stub of the cigarette to his lips, drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. The screen on his cell phone was cracked but it was still lit, the screen showing a call log with three missed calls from an unknown number. He called it back, got a message saying the number was for outgoing calls only, but if he wanted to reach the MEDICAL CENTER, to call the main number.
His wife had taken his phone, had insisted on switching it over to silent mode so he could finally get the rest he needed. That had been almost nineteen hours ago.
The glass coffee table lay in pieces in front of him, completely destroyed. Glass glittered on his clothes, catching the light from the flickering lamp that lay on the floor nearby. He crushed out the cigarette on the shard of glass that lay beside his bare foot.
“This isn’t happening,” he said it again, closing his eyes. If he opened them, the message would be gone. The table wasn’t enough. The Ribera jacket was a big enough sacrifice. “What do you want me to do?” His voice was barely above a pained whisper, breaking on every other syllable, “turn myself in? I… you know I can’t do that. They need me here.”
His hand shook as he reached for another cigarette only to find the pack empty. He crumpled the pack, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen as he glared into the dark night beyond the windows. The room was destroyed for the second time in months, the shelves overturned, the books jumbled in piles, spines creased, covers torn. Shredded photographs covered the floor like bizarre confetti, mingling with the stuffing torn from the leather couch. All this destruction had been wrought by his own hands, and still, he felt the pain. The gaping chasm filled him like a black hole, sucking in everything but his anguish. He’d gone from the greatest triumph of his life to the lowest depths in less than twenty-four hours.
Smash is dead. Gone. The Entity is no more.
The last thing he’d sent in that ongoing message chain had been a still shot snapped from a fan’s video of Vaughn crashing to the floor, a look of horror on his face. It had still said “delivered”, not “read” and that was more telling than anything else.
“It’s a mistake. Take me instead. Take Page. Take…” he had almost blurted out his daughter’s name before biting his tongue, as if bargaining with the universe was going to do him any good now. He let his head hang, feeling tears pricking his sinuses. He felt hollow, gutted and exhausted. “This isn’t…” his voice broke as he started to weep silently, his shoulders shaking with the force of his emotions.
He didn’t hear the stairs creak, didn’t notice the hall light come on, wasn't aware that he was no longer alone until her slipper-clad feet crunched on broken glass. He looked up sharply and immediately held up a hand. “Don’t come in here.”
“Sev? I thought someone was breaking in…” she snapped the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light, revealing the chaos in which her husband sat, tears still streaming silently down his face. It was absurd to see a man of his size overcome with this sort of despair, but somehow it was all the more real because of it. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the damage, saw the blood on Sev’s hands and feet. “What..?”
“Fourteen hours ago.” The words came in staccato bursts, “three missed calls and a message. Smash is... dead.”
Immediately, her face felt hot and she felt her shoulders drop as tears immediately filled her eyes. She rushed to defend herself, thinking this was all a way to punish her for that transgression. “I didn’t know, Sev. How could I have known? Please don’t be angry with me. I just wanted you to get some–”
“Stop.” He stood slowly, bracing his bloodied palm against the wall. Every inch of his body ached with weariness as he tried in vain to get his feet back under himself. His blood felt like ice, oozing sluggishly through his veins; his limbs like lead as exhaustion weighed him down. He finally made it upright, ran his hands over his face and up his head, leaving smears of blood like that Kratos warpaint and when his eyes met hers, they spoke tormented volumes, flicking to her face, and skittering away before he revealed too much. His voice was scratchy, deeper than normal. His heart was there on his sleeve, emotions parading across his features as he stared down at the floor.
She found her gaze pulled to the photographs on the floor. What had initially looked like haphazard, wanton destruction was now revealed to be something more systematic. Every image of the two of them had been torn so that she was perfectly preserved. The remnants that were shredded like confetti were all bits of his own image and now she understood. He’d been trying to offer himself instead. That broke her heart more than seeing the tears on his face, than seeing him leaning against the wall as though a stiff wind might knock him over. As though he felt her gaze, he turned and staggered across the room, jerking open the sliding door to step out onto the deck. He was trailing blood across the carpet, oblivious.
“Sev,” she called out his name but he kept going and she darted after him, not caring if she tore her slippers and feet to ribbons. Suddenly she had the irrational thought that he was going to jump – he heard her feet pounding the carpet. Heard the sharp intake of her breath as she pulled up short. He stopped with his hands wrapped around the railing, muscles corded as though he wanted to rip it clean from its moorings, breathing raggedly. He refused to turn around, terrified of what he might see in her green eyes. She touched his hand, tentatively and when he didn’t recoil, she slid her hand up his arm, feeling how badly he was shaking with the emotions he was trying like hell to swallow back. Pressing against his side, she reached up to touch his cheek. With her thumb she wiped away the teardrop on the end of his nose, stroking his face with her palm. A single tear spilled down his cheek, his face a mask of misery as he closed his eyes. Her hand found the back of his head, and she pulled him forward, kissing his lips. He could taste salt, and it was then that he realised she was crying, too.
His knees came unhinged and he sat down hard. She crawled into his lap, burying her head in his chest and they clung to each other as if their lives depended on it. “Death can’t take you,” the words came pouring out – she couldn’t keep them in any longer. “I can’t lose you. Never again. Promise me, Sev. Promise me you’ll never try to make that deal.” Her eyes were full of fire as she pulled back, staring at him. When he said nothing, she smacked him in the chest, vehement. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
I have been gutted. Hemorrhaged and bled out, spilling headlong into despair. I never even knew his legal name. Did you know that? We talked every day and that little fact eluded me. I received no details of a service, no obituary to be found. Just that one message, as cold and clinical as could be. He just simply vanished. Gone in the blink of an eye. We take things for granted, don't we? These moments. Hold your friends close. Tell them you love them.
I keep waiting for a reply to my message, one that is never coming. I keep thinking of things to show him, things to say. I know he would have loved to hear the rest of the story about Sunday night, about Steve and Amanda. The guilt has rubbed me raw. I never got to say goodbye. He told me to go forth and conquer, to have fun. He knew what I was going to do. He knew I planned to attack Peter Vaughn if he won that championship back and he encouraged me. Told me I deserved that spotlight, even as I conspired to skip the line.
You put your trust in me, Smash. I will not let this be the end. I promise you this.
There are no tears left to cry now. Not an ounce of emotion left to be wrung from my body. There are no words left to say here. I know you, Page.
My eyes have always been open.
I am true to the namesake. You have not cracked the code. I remain unknown, misrepresented and misunderstood. ENIGMA. JUDGE. EXECUTIONER.
Soon THEY will see the ugliness you hold inside, they will watch that sick muck ooze out as I break you in half. I will ensure The Entity is never forgotten.
THIS IS NOT MY LEGACY.
IT IS OURS.
IT IS OURS.
Here, in this moment, I know peace. I accept my role. I embrace willingly the violence that's to come. I understand now why he told me everything. He knew this would happen. He knew exactly what I would do.
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I will move Hell.
AND YOU WILL BURN.
✠
if I show you, then I know you
won't tell what I said
'cause two can keep a secret
if one of them is dead
✠
