“The Monster Machine” Enigma vs. Sal Darius

[Konrad Raab]

2 RP Limit for singles

3500 Word Limit Per RP

Deadline: 11:59:59 pm ET Wednesday, May 14, 2025

[Sal Darius]

Chapter 6 – The return

‘Psycho in my Head’ hits the arena as the crowd erupts in a frenzy of mixed reactions—cheers, jeers, and anticipation. The camera pans across the sea of global wrestling fans, some pushing forward just to be seen. It scrolls through the arena before landing on SCW’s commentary team.

Knots: This place is absolutely wild. The energy’s off the charts—and we’ve got a stacked card tonight.

Sharper: 100% Knots. Look at these people—Kansas City is…

Suddenly, Sharper is cut off as the opening bars of “California Love” by Tupac Shakur blast through the arena.

California love… California knows how to party…
In the city of L.A., in the city of good ol’ Watts…
We keep it rockin’, we keep it rockin’…

Sharper: …

Knots: What the hell?

Sal Darius walks out onto the stage, wearing his signature Blublocker aviators and a feroze-and-black floral sleeveless shirt, paired with white trousers and shoes. His biceps and pecs are pumped—he looks carved from chaos itself. He stops to glance around the arena, soaking in the crowd’s mixed reaction like fuel.

Knots: Oh my God! I’m a bit skeptical about this return.

Sharper: Isn’t it crazy?

Knots: This is a totally unexpected start to the show. Nobody saw this coming.

Darius begins his walk down the ramp, microphone in hand. Each step is deliberate, almost ritualistic. Reaching the ring, he climbs the steel steps, then pauses at the edge of the ropes. He stands still for a moment, scanning the roaring crowd through the yellow-tinted lenses of his Blublockers. Without a word, he ducks between the ropes and steps into the ring, owning the space like it was made for him.

Knots: This is going to be nuts!

Sharper: I have no clue what’s going to happen next. He’s wild—impulsive—and let’s be honest, a sex addict.

Knots: Controversial off the mat, no doubt. But inside that ring—HE FIGHTS.

Sharper: No doubt about that.

The music continues:

Now let me welcome everybody to the Wild Wild West…
A state that's untouchable like Eliot Ness…
The track hits your eardrum like a slug to your chest…
Pack a vest for your Jimmy in the city of sex…

The music cuts sharply as Darius lifts the mic to his lips. He takes a long breath, letting the crowd simmer before speaking.

Sal: What’s up, Kansas?! (Mixed crowd reaction) Don’t worry—I’m not here to ruin the card. Four title fights? That’s damn interesting. Almost as interesting as you guys.
Before I was a professional wrestler… I was a fan. AND I STILL AM! (The crowd livens up)
I’m a professional wrestler and a fan. So who knows? Maybe I’ll be sitting right there with Kansas City tonight. (Another pop from the crowd) Don’t worry—I won’t be hitting on the ladies here.

Sharper: Is he serious?

Knots: With his body count? I don’t think he’s ever been serious.

Sal: Organic honey stays in its hive. So yeah—everyone’s safe tonight. I’m not here to spoil this event. Maybe I’ll even cheer for my friends who are competing. But let's not get too soft. Broken bones and f**ed-up skulls? That’s just the beginning of pro wrestling. This ring has seen blood, injuries, death…Hell, it’s seen marriages and divorces too.
People say wrestlers just fight, win or lose. Nah…THIS IS LIFE. THIS IS THE WORLD.
THIS IS THE UNIVERSE—AND I AM THE KING OF IT! (Mixed reaction turns louder)
A king with no crown. I’ve lost matches, but I’ve never failed to put on a goddamn show.

Knots: Hard to argue with that.

Sharper: I mean… sure.

Sal: And that’s why I’m here tonight. (He takes off his aviators and raises them slightly.)
This? This is the mask I wear. Because I’m a superhero… and you all are part of my army.
You get it. We hustle. We grind. We take hit after hit—and we get the hell back up. All of this hit me hard when I lost her… to an overdose. Yeah—I’m not about that life anymore.
I’ve been through addicts. I’ve faced down gangsters. And I survived. But the ones that broke me the most…Weren’t the ones who died. It was the ones who left. The ones I thought were family. Turns out… they were just killing time.

(He pauses, breathing heavier.)

But this ain’t a therapy session. I’m not here to cry—I’m here to crack skulls. MR. D! I’M BACK! Feed me the toughest fighter you’ve got in that locker room—Because I’m hungry—and unlike these suckers, I’M NOT ON A PLANT-BASED DIET.

Sal (leaning into the camera): SO I’M…GOING TO…EAT…THEM…ALL!!!

(Crowd explodes. Sal smashes the microphone into the camera, causing static. He takes a deep breath, smells the air, then slowly puts his Blublockers back on as he stands tall in the center of the ring).

As Sal exits the ring, Kemal Yilmaz’s entrance music hits. The two lock eyes for a brief, intense moment of a silent exchange heavy with unspoken tension. Before each man continues on his own path to handle business.

Chapter 7 – Sal Darius beats Crystal Zdunich

The scene opens with The Freaky Darius gripping the clutch hard, weaving through California traffic, narrowly dodging luxury cars. Behind yellow-tinted BluBlocker aviators, he spots a red light ahead. He slams the brake — his old Toyota Tacoma screeches to a halt, stopping just inches behind the car in front. It’s a near miss. The driver ahead, an older man, eyes him through the rearview mirror. Darius just smiles back.

Sal’s Iphone vibrates and catches his attention. A couple of notifications were there. One was a notification from Mr. D and the other was his match on bumble.

Sal: Okay, let's handle the business first.

He opened WhatsApp and saw a message from Mr. D: "Soo… a flying knee? What?" Sal chuckled and replied, "Hahaha, tough match. Crystal was real good. I think the timings were spot on." Almost immediately, Mr. D responded, "Great victory!" Sal quickly followed up with, "Who do I face next?" Mr. D replied, "I have a few opponents in mind. Let’s see. For now, enjoy your win — I’ll let you know your next opponent in a couple of days." As soon as Darius reacts with a thumbs up to the message, he's jolted back to reality by a chorus of blaring horns every car around him laying it on thick.

Sal: Ahh! Fuck!

He rides the car at top speed and reaches his apartment. Sal parks his jeep.

Sal: Fuck man! I feel good now. Really thought I never had it in me. One match, one victory. Definitely feels good.

Chapter 8 – Date night

On an ordinary day, while scrolling through his phone, Sal messaged a girl he had matched with on Bumble. As their conversation progressed, she began to suspect that he might be the well-known wrestler from California. By the end of the chat, they agreed to meet later that day.
Sitting across in the famous ‘Goodboybob Cafe’ just like strangers they opened up. Everything was smooth.

The girl was a beach model, gearing up for an upcoming audition for Miss Universe. As they spent time together, she began to imagine a promising future with Sal. But something about her—maybe a look in her eyes or the way she laughed—stirred memories of his ex, who had tragically passed away from an overdose. The weight of that trauma came rushing back.
Sal suddenly blurted out, “Hey… I don’t think I’m ready to start anything new.” She looked confused. “What do you mean?” He scratched his head, struggling for the right words. “No, I mean… Can we just be friends for now? It’s hard for me to love. I’ve got a past, and it still haunts me. It could surface at any moment, and I don’t want to give you false hope or keep you waiting for something I might not be able to give.”
She stared at him, her expression turning cold. “You shouldn’t have done this. I canceled a meeting and came all the way here thinking we had something real.” With that, she slammed her hand on the table and walked away.

The king of hearts once surrounded by queens. Now sat alone at a random table in some quiet café, the echoes of his past too loud for the silence around him.

[Enigma]

ROCK HILL, NEW YORK

MAY 1, 2025

(OFF CAMERA)

Sev didn’t dream anymore. Not really. Just static behind his eyes – screams twisted into shapes, too broken to name. But that night, there was nothing. No nightmare. No silence. Just—

Open eyes.

The baby's.

Sev woke to them. Inches away. The boy was no longer in his crib. He was in Sev’s arms, swaddled in a threadbare ENIGMA shirt, soft with age and sweat-stained from a life before him. Cradled like a blessing. Or a bomb. The second thought slithered through, and the anger flared. The child didn’t move much, just a whisper of a sigh and those big, bottomless eyes open wide.

“What do you see?” His lips moved but no sound came out.

Unblinking. Unflinching. Those dark eyes so much like his own bored into Sev, as if the child was cataloguing Sev’s very existence. Or maybe he was trying to remember, like he’d already lived this all before and was just looking for the key to unlock the door. Sev had seen this stare before. In mirrors. In crowds. In other men, right before they’d broken. It wasn't vacant. Or curious. It was aware.

He swallowed, his throat dry.

In the ring, he’d faced so-called monsters. Men who’d hid behind masks, pain, violence. He’d been made a monster. Built for horror. But there was something about that tiny, perfect thing in his arms now that unnerved him deeper than any sharpened blade ever could.

What if he isn’t a monster?

What if he’s something worse?

He looked at the child. The child looked back. And for one impossibly long moment—

—they understood each other.

“…Elle?” he croaked. His voice was ash and gravel. The chair beside the bed creaked beneath him as he stirred, leaning forward. Joints screamed in protest but the pain cleared his head a little. “You… you gave him to me?”

No answer. Her breathing was slow. Deep and even.

Sev envied her at that moment, knowing he was going to crash and burn in Florida if he didn’t stop burning the candle at both ends. The hours felt precious now, full of secrets and his hands itched to squeeze every drop of everything from the next twenty-four hours.

The fire had gone out again. The room wasn’t dark even though dawn was still an hour away and at first he thought it was just the migraine halos, back again to erode the last of his sanity. It had to be imagination because it seemed as though a soft amber glow bloomed from the boy’s skin. Warm. Terrible.

Sev’s breath caught. The mark on the boy’s chest— he hadn’t noticed it before but now it stood out starkly, that afterimage burned into his retinas as his eyes closed. Blinked once. Twice.

In the low light, the child’s skin shimmered like heat off obsidian, dazzling with a newness Sev couldn’t look at directly. Not just soft — unreal. Like he wasn’t born so much as peeled from some sacred place behind the veil. And there, just above the infant’s heart, the faintest shape glowed beneath the skin. A crown — jagged, thorned, faint as a thumbprint in dust, glowing like the last coal of a dying forge.

He closed his eyes as a sound rattled in his ears— not aloud, but within. Like steel on steel. Like chains being drawn tight. His knuckles cracked. His vision blurred at the edges. His breath caught, burned in his chest and that nic-fit crawling on his skin ceased in an instant as something ancient and unspoken in him reared up. The true Monster Machine, coiled beneath years of willpower and denial, surged toward the surface.

Claim him, that eldritch voice snarled, before something else does.

The boy was tiny enough to vanish between Sev’s arms. His weight was nothing. His breath, soft as moth wings, lifted and fell against Sev’s chest.

They hadn’t named him yet.

Sev ran his thumb over the mark, staring at it, his pulse slowing.

Not drawn in ink. Not carved. Woven— like a truth treaded beneath the skin, waiting to be revealed. Like something had marked him before the womb. There was something cruel in all of this. Not evil— not yet. Just ancient. Hungry. The kind of symbol that didn’t need to explain itself. The kind of truth you could only inherit.

He ran his thumb along the boy’s chest — afraid to touch, unable to stop.

The child blinked. His eyes found Sev’s. Focused. Too early.

The room felt colder.

But the baby just blinked, calm as dusk, weighing nothing and everything all at once. Sev held him like he might vanish if he breathed too hard. Or worse— change.

The little chest rose and fell in time with his own, and Sev matched the rhythm like it was a ritual. Like it might protect them both. The mark still pulsed beneath the baby’s skin. Dim and deep. Shifting. Turning into something else. He thought he smelled incense and spent matches like church basements and funeral pyres, the cloying tickle of dust and ash in the back of his throat.

Old pine.

Petrichor and loam.

He knew that shape. Not from dreams. Not from memory. From wounds. It had been carved into enemies. Into himself, in old wars, back when he thought pain made him holy. Back when he thought horror had to be earned. He had bled in circles. He screamed in circles. The broken crown was his, bought and paid for with every drop of blood claimed in the name of THE VOID. This twisted impurity, this goddamn birthright was an afterimage burned into his closed lids and now his son bore it, effortlessly— naturally— as though the world had never meant anything else and he knew the truth. It didn’t come from Elle. This… this thing, this mark, this calling— whatever in the fuck this actually was?

It was his. Unequivocally.

His inheritance. Passed like a curse in the blood. A spiral, endless. A crown of thorns. Twisted scar tissue connecting them even like the phantom blood that pumped through those tattooed veins that had felt so damned symbolic at the time, so clever yet so vague, emerging now as the roadmap of agony that had been necessary and now he saw the fragment of that shared dream, his hands placed on an altar before an empty cradle.

He was shirtless, tattoos flickering like oil on water and as he knelt before the altar, he felt his chest rise with breath that seemed too controlled, too practiced. Like he was preparing for a match. But there was no audience here other than the trees. They were silent sentinels, witnesses forevermore. The cradle rested atop the stone dais, shrouded in linen so pale it almost glowed and although the wind stirred it, whatever was waiting within was hidden from sight. Sev pressed his palms to the cold stone, offering himself. Blood beaded at his wrists— not cut, not wounded, just given. His veins parked like cracks in old earth, blood welling as though summoned. The shrine drank it up. The trees felt closer now. Protecting this sacred circle even as they formed its shape.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Not to the child. Never.

To the world.

To Elle.

To whatever still listened.

The Machine writhed in him. Old metal memories. Blood rites. Fire. Glory.Not the roar of a predator. Not the howl of hunger. Just a purr – low, ancient.

Pleased.

Pleased that the boy existed.

Pleased that Sev had finally built something that would outlast.

He looked into his son’s wide, unblinking eyes— no tears, no fear, just quiet knowing— and felt something shatter. A flicker of heat ghosted across Sev’s palm.

Then—

---

I saw it once

on a throat gone cold—

spiral of bone,

crown of old.

---

[.REC]

[FADE IN]

A dim backstage hallway. ENIGMA sits with his back against the concrete wall, one massive hand pressed to the floor, like he’s listening through it. His war paint is mottled with sweat and his voice is pitched low. Not soft—low, a deep rumble, like thunder before the break.

ENIGMA:

Before I ever heard his voice, I saw my son’s eyes.

There was blood. There was silence.

And then there were eyes—

Not searching. Not innocent.

Just… watching.

Like he already knew what I am.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t scream.

Neither did I.

The pain we shared wasn’t the kind you survive.

It’s the kind you pass down, like a crown made of wire. Like a blood that can’t forget.

He takes a slow breath in through his crooked nose, exhaling slowly as though trying to calm emotions that haven’t yet crept through that pronounced rasp.

ENIGMA:

And that night, in that room, with Elle’s body trembling next to mine and old blood still caked under my nails, I didn’t feel much like a man. I felt like a curse that had finally finished carving itself into flesh.

You talk about hunger, Sal. You talk about chaos. About fucking and fighting and walking out of flames with your shades on and a smile on your face. I appreciate a man who lays it all on the table so transparently. Makes this dissection far less clinical. More like tearing overdone flesh from the bones–

There’s a shadow of something on his features as that thought breaks and he shakes his head once, subtly enough that most see it more like a twitch, like the rolling of those massive shoulders that follows. The predatory flash of teeth more territorial than that near-conversational tone makes it seem.

ENIGMA:

You want to feast, right? You want to rip something raw from the bones of this world just to prove you’re still starving. You want meat. You want marrow. You want to gorge until you vomit, a life of true gluttony. It’s a shame for you that I have nothing left to give. I’ve been hollowed out already.

I survived a meeting with Sebastian Everett-Bryce. I walked in not as a ravenous beast but as a man with a child’s eyes burned into the back of my skull, those eyes that met mine in silence even as they drew their first breath. Those eyes, they were clinical, older than time itself – they were mine. A mirror, telling me I’m not allowed to leave the violence behind. Not when the next in line is already crowning. 

You want to break me?

You’re already too late.

The visions came before the birth.

The monsters showed me what I’d lose.

They made me eat my own name and spit out a new one in blood:

MONSTER MACHINE.

A riddle carved into a coffin that never closed.

You’re looking for a show?

You’ll get one.

Looking for a little fun? A little cakewalk? Unfortunately for you, I have already had quite a frustrating week. By the time we meet, these idle hands will be unable to stop short. You’ll get screams. You’ll get violence. You’ll get the man who stood over his newborn son and said: “I’ll kill the world before I let it take you.”

So bring the chaos, Sal.

But understand— you’re not fighting a man.

You’re fighting a father– someone who has already died to make room for something smaller. And far more terrifying.

I am your prophet of pain. I am misery’s apostle. I am the harbinger of the last breath of the thing that almost broke me. These parts were taken from dead things, baptised in blood. I am your DAMNATION. I am the most miserable thing in this business – SCUM OF THE EARTH.

I AM YOUR UNDOING.

The broken crown. The downward spiral. The thorn in the womb of time.

I’m not trying to win anymore. I’m not trying to fill my bank account with as many zeroes as I can collect before the luck runs out. No. This is about my legacy, Sal. About passing the torch. About understanding where you’re from, what you were MADE FOR.

I’m just trying to make sure the monsters know I’m still here.

He goes silent. The lights above him flicker. He doesn’t look up. The silence holds a little too long. Then he smiles beneath the smeared war paint, as if something just moved inside the wall behind him, answering back.

[FADE TO BLACK]

---

I felt it once

in a dreamscape gone mad.

thickened scar tissue,

from a life I never had.

---

ROCK HILL, NEW YORK

MAY 1, 2025

(OFF CAMERA)

“Sev?”

A voice. Thin. Worried.

Elle.

She was awake. And watching. The room was far brighter though the time on the clock remained the same as the last time he’d looked. That felt wrong. Impossible, even.

He didn’t move when she spoke. Couldn’t. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. He could feel the crick in his neck, the tingle in the tips of his fingers – how long had he been sitting here like this? Her voice cracked the surface of him, but the core remained locked. His arms were protective, a safe space, Elle had always told him. His face was in shadow, those massive arms still cradling the child as his mind kept circling the spiral and blooming outward into that bristling crown. He couldn’t bear to look at her. Not yet.

Because if he did, she’d see it. On his face. On the boy. She couldn’t not see that blemish – what he’d passed on.

What he was.

What the boy would become.

“I didn’t… mean to fall asleep,” she said softly. “You— God, Sev! It’s Thursday already? You stayed awake this whole time?”

A small, almost stupid nod.

And then: “He’s quiet.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “He is.”

A pause stretched. Elle shifted in the sheets, trying to sit up. She was sore, but she didn’t say it. She didn’t ask for help. Didn’t reach for the boy.

Sev was still facing away from her, still hiding him. Not out of cruelty. Not even shame. Out of the simplest, most broken instinct: protection.

As if not showing her could somehow delay the moment when her eyes would meet the mark. The spiral. The truth.

Elle’s voice was steady, but lower now. Not quite a warning. Not yet.

“Sev. Let me see him.”

Silence.

He drew a breath, long and shaking. The Machine inside him resisted— wanted to run, to lie, to fight. But Sev didn’t. He turned. And he held out his son.

The light caught the baby’s skin.

The mark shone.

And Sev watched it happen.

Watched her see it.

The world went flat, like the air thinned. Like time backed away from her. First came the breath— caught. Not sharp. Not horrified. But stopped. Then the blink. Then the eyes widening before narrowing again, almost too fast to catch.

Then—

Nothing.

Or rather, she went completely still.

He knew that kind of stillness— the kind that came after the scream. When the fight was over. When you realized the monster didn’t come for you—

It came through you.

He whispered, “Elle, I—”

But she shook her head. Not in anger. Not in blame. Just— no.

Not yet.

She reached for the baby, and Sev gave him over like he was handing her the last of himself. Like he expected her to recoil. To hand him back. To sob. To run. He waited for her to scream. To accuse. But all she did was breathe, like she’d been holding it for a lifetime.

Something inside him shifted. Absolutely shattered.

She cradled him like a mother should. Lovingly.

And finally—

Her lips parted, not in fear but déjà vu. That shape. She had drawn it once. In chalk. Or ash. She remembered a boy her age, with dark eyes like their son’s. The door was open. A name trembling on her lips but vanishing like a dream the moment she tried to utter it. She swallowed. Tasted dust.

Sev held his breath , feeling the fragility of the moment, terrified to move or twitch or even exist and when her eyes locked on his, Elle said four words that changed everything: “I’ve seen this before.”

Not a question. Not a cry. Not a trace of emotion. Just a fact, said aloud for the first time in decades. Maybe ever.

Sev’s heart stopped in his chest.

She’d said it with such calm. With that same strange stillness that had crept into the room the second she’d seen the mark— not as if a monster had been born, but as if something forgotten had returned. Something ancient. Personal. Familial.

The baby stirred, just slightly, in her arms. A sigh, again. That same breath that had started it all. Elle didn’t look down. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes never left Sev’s.

“I’ve seen this before.”

He swallowed, throat tight. “Where?”

Her head tilted, slow. A movement like a pendulum swing, like she was trying to remember without tearing something loose in the process.

“When I was little,” she murmured, eyes beginning to shine with the glaze of memory. “I don’t know how old. I was sick, maybe? We were... somewhere with woods. Pines. Fog. You weren’t there. My mother wasn’t there.” She blinked. “But he was.”

Sev’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Elle’s brow furrowed— not in confusion, but effort. She was trying to open a door long rusted shut. One hand brushed the child’s brow, instinctively, protectively, as though it helped her find the words.

“My brother,” she said.

The air changed. Sharp. Electric. Charged like a sky seconds before lightning.

But Sev didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Because he knew. He knew.

That word— brother— cracked something wide open in him too, though he didn’t know why. Just the way she said it. Like it had been missing. Like she had lost him, not just forgotten.

Elle kept going, slow and deliberate, like she was crossing a frozen lake and each sentence was a test of the ice. “I didn’t remember him until now,” she whispered. “Not really. Just... flickers. We were both so young. He had a mark like this. Not exactly the same, but... similar. I saw it once when we were hiding under the stairs. I asked him what it was. He said it was a secret. That if I knew, I’d be taken away.”

The baby yawned in her arms, impossibly serene.

“I thought I made him up,” she said. “Until now.”

Sev moved before he knew what he was doing. One hand found hers. Anchored her. Not tightly. Not forcefully. Just there. Because he needed her to know she wasn’t alone. That none of them were anymore.

The spiral wasn’t just a scar.

It was a map.

A lineage.

An inheritance written in shadow and silence and fire.

And somehow, whatever Elle had buried to survive, whatever he’d fought to become, had circled back again. In this tiny child. In this impossible moment. They had made something neither of them understood.

Something watching. Remembering. Choosing.

Something not born of chaos or hunger— but pattern.

She looked down at the boy again, the faintest tremble in her fingers. “I think... I think we need to find out where this started–”

Sev nodded, solemn. “And where it ends.”

But neither of them said the truth hanging in the silence between them:

It never ends.

Only spirals.

[Sal Darius]

Chapter 8 - It was her… once again.

As the night out came to an end, Sal wiped the tears from his cheeks — tears shed in the memory of her. He stood still for a moment, eyes locked on the reflection in the glass mirror door. His thoughts wandered deep, consumed by the realization that he had neglected the one person who truly deserved his time and attention. A passing waiter noticed him, pausing to check in.

Waiter: Sir! Sirr!

Sal didn’t respond at first, too far gone in his own head. But the second call pulled him out of his trance. He looked up quickly, wiped his face again, and sniffled.

Sal: Yes?

Waiter: Would you like to order something?

Sal: No… actually, I need to go.

Waiter: Sure, sir. No problem.

The waiter turned to walk away toward another table, but before he could get far, Sal called out to him again.

Sal: Heyy! Come here.

He reached deep into his pocket, pulled out some cash, and handed it over.

Sal: Keep it.

The waiter smiled with thanks and moved along. Sal stepped out of the café, slid into his car, started it, and pressed the gas. As he drove, the clouds above began to rumble, heavy and moody. Within seconds, the skies opened up and rain poured down. In the middle of that storm, The Freaky Darius sped through the streets on his way home.

Once he arrived, he reached into his dashboard and pulled out an old photo — him and her, together. He stared at it, lost in the past, then leaned in and gently kissed her face.

Sal: Love you. I believe we’ll meet soon.

He got out, locked the car, and made his way into the house. That’s when it hit him — he had a match coming up, and not just any match. A tough one, against an SCW standout.

Sal: SHIT! I just got a couple hours to fucking sleep.

He stripped off the wet clothes, tossed them aside, and climbed into bed wearing only his boxers. His body hit the mattress hard, his mind already drifting back to her.

In his dream, he was lying on an old sofa — the same one where he and the crew used to go wild. His body was buzzing, fueled by old memories and hazy nights. And then, she appeared. Just like that.

Her: Babe! Babe! Wake up. (softly running her hand across his face)

Sal stirred, opening his eyes. The clouds outside roared louder, echoing his unrest. The Freaky Darius woke with a weight on his chest, torn between pain and purpose. For a moment, he thought about skipping the match against Gavin Taylor. His hand reached for his phone. He opened a message to Mr. D.

‘Hey, I’m sorry. Won’t be able to make it today…’

But after staring at the words, he erased them. Put the phone down. Got up.

And started getting ready for war.


Chapter 9 - Gavin Taylor beats Sal Darius

The flashbacks fade, and somehow — against all odds — Sal makes it to the arena. The lights are blinding. The crowd is wild.

Phillips: “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall…”

Sharper: “Let me tell you, Knots — Sal doesn’t look ready. Not for this. Not tonight.”

Knots: “These addicts, Sharper! They say they’re clean, they swear they’re back on track… but they never are. He had to take something. Look at him. Still chasing blondes and party lights. That life’s in his veins.”

The bell rings. The match goes off like a bomb.

Fast-paced. Brutal. Explosive.

Gavin and Sal tear into each other like they’ve got everything to prove — and nothing to lose.
Gavin yanks Sal off the mat, goes for a suplex — but Sal slips out, lands behind him, and drops him with a reverse DDT. He uses the ropes to get up, slow and shaky. Gavin’s already charging — but boom — Sal throws up a boot, smashes him in the face. A quick suplex follows. Sal steps back, breathes, watches Gavin crawl to his feet.
And then — bang — Knee Jerk.

Knots: “Well, Sal’s giving it all he’s got, but Gavin’s one tough SOB. That Knee Jerk landed!”

Sharper: “100% agreed. But is that it?”

Sal reloads. He backs up. He’s ready to hit a second Knee Jerk, loaded with emotion and desperation.
But just before he strikes… she appears again. Not really. Just in his head. Her laugh. Her voice. The way she touched his face. The Freaky Darius freezes. Mind shut. Soul hijacked by memory. In that exact second, Gavin explodes forward — roundhouse kick straight to the skull. Sal drops. Gavin dives on top. 1… 2… 3.

Phillips: “Here is your winner… GAVIN TAYLOR!”

The bell rings. Gavin rolls off, holding his jaw, breathing hard. Victorious.

Sharper: “And Gavin Taylor makes Sal Darius pay for his overconfidence! What a win here tonight in London, England!”

Knots: “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

Sharper: “If he digs deep like this at Taking Hold of the Flame — he might just be the favourite!

Final Chapter - Sal Darius vs The Monster Machine

With time passing and the sting of defeat still fresh, Sal begins to truly feel the weight of it all. The match loss, the flashbacks, the lingering ache of someone he hasn’t moved on from — it’s all piling up. And now, he finally admits it to himself. He’s not over her. Not even close. Wrestling, the one thing he’s always had control over, is slipping too. These flashbacks… these ghosts… they’re not just emotional. They’re dangerous. They could end his whole career. Frustrated, Sal unlocks his phone. His thumb hovers over an app he’s barely used — Bumble. He stares at it. Tap. Uninstall. Gone.

Sal: Fuck these hoes!

Without a second thought, he throws on his sneakers and heads outside. The rain’s stopped. The air’s sharp. He takes off running — not from the past, but straight through it.

While jogging, he pulls out his phone and dials Mr. D.

Sal: Heyy!

Mr. D: Tough loss, buddy!

Sal: Yeah… I just got a bit distracted.

Mr. D: No worries. You still put on one heck of a show out there. That crowd was electric! But heads up — your next match is against The Monster Machine. Be ready.

Sal: Woah! You guys really love throwing monsters at me, huh? Well tell 'em this — I’m not running. I’m hunting. And they’re all getting slaughtered.

Mr. D: That’s because you’re a beast yourself! Hahahaha!

Sal: 100%. I’ll see you in a couple days at the arena.

Mr. D: Sure! See you then.

Sal ends the call, still jogging, but now with purpose. No distractions. No excuses. Just him… and the fight ahead.

The show opens where the last week's fight highlights were being shown.

Sharper: We had some crazy fights last week! But ladies and gentlemen we’ve got a better card for you this week!

Knots: Agreed but let's quickly listen from Sal Darius. Who sort of looked a little dazy in his last match. But he put on a great show.

Sharper: Yeah, lets hear from him.

Sal was standing tall, with some cool florals on with his blublockers…

Sal: So this week it’s me vs the so-called Monster Machine. I don't care about the last week, to be honest. The man built like a wrecking ball with a horror movie soundtrack. He walks like a shadow, doesn’t speak, stares through people like he’s reading their nightmares. And that’s cool, man — real dramatic. But here’s the truth… I’m not scared. I don’t care how many lights flicker when you enter, how many people freeze when your name’s announced. That fear trick? That ain’t gonna work on me.

You might be a monster to them, but to me? You’re just another body in the ring. Which I will bury tonight. You're just another guy trying to play evil, trying to psych out the locker room with your little dark side act. But I’ve seen real darkness. I’ve lived through it. And I’ve survived. So when I step in that ring with you, I’m not stepping into your world — you’re stepping into mine.

You’re big. You’re strong. But I’m fast. I’m sharp. And I hit like regret after a bad decision. You think you're the nightmare? Nah. I’m the wake-up call. So get ready, Monster Machine… because this week, the only thing getting crushed is your reputation.