The scene opens in a small, abandoned gym. A thin coat of dust can be seen dressing the entire interior of the building. Softly, just out of frame, the sound of vinyl being struck alongside heavy breathing is heard. The camera pans to reveal a lone man standing in the middle of such disrepair: Ned Kaye. In front of him is a nearly ancient looking punching bag that he hits with a series of destructive blows, finishing with repeated kicks until the chain hoisting the bag succumbs to its age. The bag falls in front of Ned, who huffs for a moment before muttering, "Son of a bitch," and kicking the bag across the floor. Now that he's no longer moving so quickly, it's apparent that Ned hasn't slept or possibly rested properly since his last match. In a fragile calmness, he takes a seat in a nearby chair that immediately collapses beneath him.

Taking a moment to collect his building rage, he stands and dusts himself off slightly, doing all he can to resist the urge to give a guttural yell. He shuts his eyes tightly and breathes.

Victory had been so close. It was firmly in his palms and his nervousness and irritability had loosened his grip. But even though Gator's move had incapacitated him and even as Kuda had lifted him without an effort for the elimination, those weren't the names haunting The Notorious One. Neither of them got under Ned's skin like one man. A man that he eliminated last night. He bested this man, didn't he? Proved his methodology to the XWF faithful? Cemented himself as an upcoming roster member? So, why did it all leave him feeling...

His eyes shoot open, allowing him to watch sand pour out of the bag's seams. He sighs and sits on the apron of a beat-up ring containing even more dirt and dust than the rest of the building. A wave of thoughts visibly cut through his mind in harsh currents as he tries to keep himself together. His hands clench into fists and tremble at his accumulating fury until he screams with the same intensity he did last night. And as the echo of himself fades, it seems that clarity cascades over Kaye.

Focus.

He inhales deeply and stands. The surrounding air has a crispness to it, as well as a nostalgia. Lifting himself into the ring, he leans on the ropes, face as still as his thoughts. He thinks back, allowing his body to mimic movement ls he hadn't made in this ring for the better half of a decade.

"Back to basics, Ned."

The voice of his first trainer floods back to him.

"C'mon, you're not gonna win a consolation prize at this rate. You gotta just calm down and keep form."

He gets into a stance, taking in words long past.

"You have to focus, buddy. Those other guys? They live this shit, Ned. They operate on instinct and attack and that's all they need. But you're not like that, kid. You got a damn good talent, but if you let it just fall apart under any amount of pressure you might as well quit now. You wanna fuckin' quit?!"

"No."

"Passion, Ned! Give a good God damn!"

"No!"

"That's what I thought! You just need to do one thing when that temper of yours starts going, you just gotta focus, channel it into words, put in a single gaze fer all I care, but get that anger and use it to fuel that head o' yours!"

Focus.

"You just imagine that fella's name and you pump every ounce of your being into taking him down, you understand me?"

Focus on one name.

On one moment in time.

"John Rogan."

Ned turns to face the camera slowly, staring daggers through the lens.

"Although neither of us walked out of that building with the Federweight title, I must commend you. You managed to weasel your way beneath my skin and get me more on edge than I already was that night. As much as I try to keep a constant calm, it was a new experience for me to compete there, knowing the eyes of millions were upon me. Where any mistake of mine would be amplified and where the time to prove myself could easily crush me alive. It was a truly nerve-wracking experience, I admit."

"That in mind, I did eliminate you, John."

Ned's overbearing intensity fades a tad as his smirk returns.

"Not bad for a guy you "don't know" about, I'd say."

He sighs, glancing down for a moment.

"Your words did linger around me, but not for the reasons you'd expect. The fact is I proved myself a damn worthy competitor, but that simply isn't enough for me currently. My desire is to force those words back down your throat. I'm not going to take comfort in merely eliminating you, I want to prove my critics wrong. To prove your narrow examination of me as the fiction it is. If you wish to say your words haunted me, be my guest. Just be aware that this Warfare will end in an exorcism as I move past you onto greater challenges."

"So, why rush off to some decaying antique to train? Truthfully, this is where I began. And if I'm to be apart of the XWF proper, it won't be until I've paid my dues here."

Ned moves his gaze to his right, noticing where he placed his phone down. He gives a contemplative glare before nodding and muttering something to himself.

"When I walk down that stage Wednesday night, I swear on the souls of my loved ones that John Rogan will regret underestimating my prowess. I am entering that match to dominate. I suggest you focus on surviving."

"You can't run from yourself."