Ten years ago
 
In the heart of the desolate Siberian landscape, where the sun's feeble light barely touched the frost-rimed earth, the Russian gulag stood as a grim testament to human suffering. The gulag was an unsympathetic realm where the piercing cold seemed to have its own heartbeat, an uncompromising and brutish rhythm that governed every moment of every single day. Envision a vast expanse of sub-zero wasteland, where the horizon is a distant, gray line, and the sky is perpetually shrouded in a godforsaken overcast sky. The landscape is marked by snowdrifts that ascend like specters from the Earth, whispering secrets of heartache to those who traverse their inhospitable stretches.
 
Guard: Move along…
 
The sound of prisoners' chains as they approach the gates of the gulag is a haunting symphony of despondency and resignation. Each step they take is accompanied by the relentless clinking and clanking of frigid metal, a discordant rhythm that reverberates through the bone-chilling, stark silence of the Siberian topography. As they shuffle forward, the chains around their ankles and wrists jingle with a mournful clatter. The noise is an oppressive, metallic din, a grim reminder of their inescapable fate. The chains are not merely physical restraints; they are symbolic shackles of their lost freedom and shattered dreams. Each link in the chain seems to echo the heavy burden of their confinement, its sound like a constant, cruel reminder of their captivity.
 
Guard: MOVE…
 
The clinking of the chains is punctuated by the occasional harsh rattle as the prisoner’s stumble over uneven ground or are pulled sharply by a guard’s command. This interruption adds a jagged, dissonant edge to the melody of their torment. The sound carries through the frigid air, cutting through the heavy silence that hangs over the camp like a suffocating shroud. With each step, the chains seem to grow heavier, their clamor more insistent, as if mocking the prisoners’ futile attempts to escape their grim reality. The rhythmic clangor resonates against the cold, iron gates of the gulag, amplifying the feeling of impending doom that lies just beyond them. The gates themselves, towering and forbidding, stand as an unyielding barrier between the prisoners and any semblance of freedom or hope.
 
The harsh, metallic noise of the chains serves as a grim symphony to their arrival, a relentless reminder of their diminished status and the unyielding nature of their punishment. It is a sound that lingers long after they have passed, an echo of their suffering that reverberates through the barren expanse of the gulag, marking their passage with an indelible, sorrowful note. When Dmitri first stepped inside the gulag, the experience was a sensory onslaught, a jarring collision of reality and his deepest fears. The moment his boots crossed the threshold, he felt an overwhelming weight settle over him, as if the very air was thick with the collective anguish of those who had come before.
 
Dmitri’s eyes began darting about, frequently shifting his gaze from one spot to another. His posture was tense, hands clenched with a rigid stance, as he occasionally glanced over their shoulder on alert. Finally, his eyes adjusted to the dim, dreary light, as he took in the desolate camp. The sight was a bloodthirsty hellscape of rusting metal and decaying wood. The barracks, squat and sullen, loomed like ghosts in the frozen empire, their walls blemished with age and filled with disfiguring scars. The barbed wire fences, glistening with a malevolent sheen, encircled the camp with an unspoken threat. The bleak, gunmetal gray sky hung low, casting a gloomy shadow over everything, while the snow-covered ground seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing any hint of sympathy or hope.
 
Dmitri tilted his head slightly while abruptly closing his eyes as his ears perked up to catch every nuance of the soundscape that now enveloped him. The tranquility was sinister, punctuated only by the distant clanking of chains and the occasional, sharp command from the guards. The sounds of other prisoners muffled conversations, the shuffle of footsteps, and the creaking of old, weary structures were isolated and haunting. Each sound was a constant reminder of his new, forbidding reality, a cruel soundtrack to his entry into this frozen hell.
 
Dmitri took a deep breath in allowing the heavy air with a mix of staleness and the acrid tang of burning coal to move through his lungs. The pervasive scent of dampness and deterioration adhered to everything, a grim testament to the harsh conditions that governed over the gulag. Every breath felt coagulated, laden with the stench of desperation and neglect.
 
Guard: Are you the man they call, "Baba Yaga?"
 
Dmitri doesn’t respond as the guard grows agitated.
 
Guard: Are you “Baba Yaga?”
 
“Da.”
 
Dmitri’s gravelly voice carried a deep, textured resonance that feels almost tactile, like a rough-hewn stone. When he speaks, each word seems to emerge from a rich, resonant depth, with a husky timbre that conveys both weariness and strength. The guard lowers his AK-47 as a warm sound emerges, resonant rumble that bubbles up from deep within. It begins as a low, benevolent murmur, gradually gaining strength as it escapes through his slightly parted lips. The guard’s shoulders shake subtly with the rhythm of laughter, creating a soft, infectious tremor in the air. His eyes crinkled at the corners, sparkling with mirth, and a relaxed smile spreads across their face, revealing just a hint of crooked teeth. The chuckle was more than just a sound; it’s an expressive, heartfelt release that carries a sense of genuine amusement and warmth, leaving a lingering, pleasant echo of joy. As the guard wipes away a tear away from the corner of his eyes the smile fades.
 
Guard: Is that so…
 
Dmitri knew what was coming next. The sudden, jolting force of a powerful blow from the end of the AK-47 abruptly knocked the wind from Dmitri’s sails. The impact was a visceral shot to the gut, immediately causing a deep, constricting pain that stole his breath away. His chest felt like it was compressed by an invisible weight, leaving him gasping to inhale. But no matter how hard Dmitri tried, his lungs refused to cooperate, as if they’d been temporarily paralyzed. The sharp, acute pain radiated from his abdomen, creating a sensation of being hollowed out.
 
Guard: “Baba Yaga?” Ha.
 
The guard spit next to Dmitri who was doubled over, hands clutching his stomach as if to shield himself from the shock. Each attempt to breathe is met with a futile, panicked feeling of trying to inhale through a closed valve. There’s a mix of pain and disorientation, as his vision blurred slightly, and a cold sweat formed on his forehead. The initial shock gave way to a lingering ache, a deep, throbbing sensation that persists in his core. Dmitri felt a wave of nausea accompanying the breathlessness, as his body struggled to regain its rhythm. The surrounding noise seemed distant, muffled, as his focus narrowed to the struggle of recovering his breath. Dmitri grabbed a hand full of snow and clenched his fist white knuckle tight. The cold was immediate and penetrating, a biting, relentless force that seemed to seep through every layer of his body and into his very bones. His hands, though gloved, felt the cruel bite of the wind, and the cold, rough texture of the chains that now bound him was a constant, jarring reminder of his captivity.
 
Guard: Now get up! “Baba Yaga.”
 
The guard mocked Dmitri as he absorbed the full impact of his new environment, a wave of emotions washed over him. First was the sharp sting of disbelief, a sudden realization that his life had been irrevocably altered. He felt a profound sense of despair as he grappled with the cold reality of his situation. The enormity of the camp and the severity of its conditions pressed down on him, making him feel small and insignificant in the face of such overwhelming desolation. Yet beneath the despair, there was a flicker of defiance. Dmitri’s mind raced with thoughts of survival, a determination to endure despite the harshness that surrounded him. He resolved to face whatever came next with the same strength and resolve that had carried him through his past trials. The sight of the bleak, oppressive landscape and the sense of isolation stirred something deep within him a fierce resolve to resist, to adapt, and to find a way to maintain his dignity amidst the crushing weight of his new reality. Dmitri smiled as he made his way back to his feet cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders.
 
The gulag was not merely a place of physical confinement; it was a prison of the soul, a place where the harsh elements mirrored the relentless cruelty of those who governed it. It was a place where the human spirit was tested to its limits, where every day was a struggle to retain a semblance of dignity and humanity. In the end, the gulag was a monument to the depths of human suffering, a place where the indomitable will of the human spirit was both challenged and, in rare moments, illuminated. It was a place where hope was buried beneath layers of ice and despair, where men were stripped of their humanity and left to become shadows of their former selves. In this frozen purgatory, Dmitri Drako would emerge as an enigma a man transformed into a living legend by the brutal conditions that sought to fracture him.


 
 
 
 
 
 









 
In the umbrageous shadowed alleys of Eastern Russia, the nebulous veil of twilight bestowed an otherworldly incandescence on the uninhabited streets. Here, folklore and reality intertwined together into a dark tapestry, creating a place where the mundane and the mystical dwelled side by side. The constricted alleys meandered like serpents through a labyrinthine neighborhood, lined with ancient buildings that seemed to lean inwards, their dilapidated facades covered in a creeping shroud of ivy and moss. Their windows were dark, uninviting, and often shattered, revealing only the empty, hollow eyes of abandoned rooms.
 
Off in the distance the rhythmic sound of footsteps reverberates through the compressed alley, each step embrittled and clear against the weathered cobblestones. The echoes danced around, lingering momentarily before scurrying off into the shadows. There’s a steady cadence, perhaps a hint of urgency, as the soles strike the stones with a soft thud, the sound galvanized with the faint rustle of fabric and the whisper of the evening breeze. Each footfall creates a melody of sequestration, the cobbles telling stories of countless passersby, now just a backdrop to this solitary approach. The air feels charged, as if the very stones are anticipating the figure that draws near, the echoes entwining an instrumental symphony of sound that hints at both quandary and commitment.
 
The cobblestones beneath the character's exhausted black boots were slick with a layer of wet grime, shimmering underneath the ashen light of a waning moon discharges gingerly across the archaic buildings, manufacturing a blanched, silvery glow that feels almost ethereal bathing everything in a muted hue, transforming familiar shapes into ghostly silhouettes as the shadows stretch and shift, their edges blurred, as if the world is caught in a dream. The air was thick with an oppressive fog that rolled in from the nearby forest, curling around the alleyways and swallowing the street in a phantasmic haze. The scent of decomposing and damp earth permeated the atmosphere, mixing with the faint, lingering odor of wood smoke from inconspicuous fireplaces. Dmitri’s voice was low and gravelly, echoing with menacing tone.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment has finally arrived. It happens at one of the grandest spectacles that the XWF has to offer.  I’ll get the opportunity to cut my teeth in this business live on pay-per-view at Relentless. What a fitting name for my first ever professional wrestling encounter. Most people walking around on this planet just can’t seem to grasp a simplistic concept and that being average is unacceptable. I learned a long time ago when I was locked away for simply believing in something different, choosing to think for myself and go against the grain and speaking my mind. I learned I was built differently than most of the sheep in society and choose to take a stand. My prize? Locked away in a gulag…  In that moment I decided that I was going to be the one in control. So, I held the line. In this time, I realized that I wanted to be much more than average. I am the man who wants everything that this company that this company has to offer, and I have no issue stacking bodies to get there and if anyone to stands in my way. You’ll be steamrolled like a dog in the streets. I’m hungry and about to conquer the entire company for every single scrap on the table.  What you are about to witness is something truly unforgettable. My name is Dmitri ‘Baba Yaga’ Drako, and at Relentless, I will step into the squared circle for the first time, ready to deliver a performance that will sear itself into your memories forever.”
 
He pauses, as his words linger on the air which feels like the cage, he had become accustomed to.
 
 “You see, while most of you have been living your lives in comfort and ease, I have been enduring the harshest of trials. For years, I was imprisoned in the cold, unforgiving confines of a Russian gulag. They thought they could break me. They thought they could shatter my spirit and turn me into nothing more than a forgotten ghost of the past. Burring me in the fridge ground. No! Instead, I chose otherwise and was forged into something far greater, something they never anticipated. A king, a conqueror, a legend and I’ll do the same in XWF. There is always someone out there working harder than you and I’m that man. Willing to forgo sleep, precious desires and comforts just to be superior and that name and face is mine. I will get into the heads of the wrestlers of this federation and own space I will do the haunting and hunting.”
 
Amid this eerie setting stood Dmitri Drako, known in hushed tones as “Baba Yaga”. His presence was a palpable force in the oppressive gloom, a shadow among shadows. Dmitri, clad in a long, tattered cloak that fluttered around him like dark wings, moved with a grace that belied his menacing reputation. His face, gaunt and angular, was partially obscured by the deep hood of his cloak, but his piercing eyes gleamed with a cold, malevolent light. He paced the alley, the intensity of his presence growing with each step. His voice, though steady, carries an undercurrent of raw power.
 
“In that hellhole, I became a phenomenon. They whispered my name in trepidation, spoke of my prowess with trembling voices. They called me “Baba Yaga”, the embodiment of their darkest nightmares. While others lay down and surrendered, I rose from the ashes of my suffering. I turned every beat of agony into a weapon, every moment of pain into a badge of honor. I fought not just to survive, but to dominate. And now, I bring that same ferocity to the XWF.”
 
Tonight, Dmitri was engaged in a ritual that spoke of ancient and forbidden practices. At the center of the alley, he had created a makeshift circle using salt and dried herbs, arranged meticulously on the ground. The circle was adorned with intricate runes and symbols etched into the cobblestones, glowing faintly with a sickly green light that pulsed in rhythm with the low hum of Dmitri’s incantations. The symbols seemed to writhe and shift as though they were alive, reacting to the dark energies being summoned. In one hand, Dmitri held an ancient, gnarled staff topped with a crystal that glowed with an unsettling, pulsating light. The staff was as old as the legends that surrounded him, its surface engraved with cryptic inscriptions and symbols of forgotten power. With a fluid motion, he brought the staff down, striking the ground with a resonant thud that sent ripples of dark energy through the circle.
 
As Dmitri chanted in an archaic language, his voice was a low, resonant murmur, almost drowned by the fog that swirled around him. The incantations were accompanied by the occasional flare of violet flame that erupted from the circle, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding walls. The flames danced and twisted, illuminating the alley with an unnatural light that flickered like the heartbeat of some malevolent entity. Around the edges of the circle, strange, otherworldly figures began to materialize, their forms shifting and contorting as if struggling to maintain their shape in the material world. These specters were not fully visible but were discernible through the distortion they caused in the air, as if reality itself was bending around their presence. Their eyes glowed with a haunting luminescence, and their mouths moved in silent screams, echoing the terror that was about to unfold.
 
Dmitri’s expression was one of intense concentration mixed with a hint of malevolent satisfaction. His eyes, reflecting the greenish glow of the symbols and the violet flames, were fixed on the emerging figures with a look of cold authority. He raised his free hand, and with a sweeping motion, directed the dark energies toward the figures. The spectral entities recoiled and twisted, their forms becoming increasingly unstable and chaotic under his control. With another chant, Dmitri directed the energy towards a specific point in the air, and with a burst of ethereal light, a portal began to form. The portal was a swirling vortex of darkness and light, churning with the raw power of the ritual. It seemed to suck in the surrounding fog and distort the space around it, creating an oppressive gravitational pull that drew the attention of anyone who dared to venture close.
 
The air grew colder, and a chilling wind began to howl through the alley, carrying with it a sense of dread and impending doom. Dmitri’s figure was now fully engulfed in the aura of the ritual, his silhouette cast against the shimmering portal. His voice rose to a crescendo, the incantations becoming more frantic and intense as he sought to solidify the portal and the dark entities within. The alleyway was silent except for the ominous hum of the ritual and the occasional crackle of the violet flames. Shadows seemed to stretch and writhe along the walls, as if reacting to the dark energies being conjured. The fog thickened, almost as if trying to shield the alley from the malevolent force that Dmitri was unleashing.
 
During this dark spectacle, Dmitri stood as both conductor and creator, a figure of profound and unsettling power. His actions, though menacing and fraught with danger, were carried out with an almost ritualistic precision, a testament to his mastery over the forbidden arts. The alleyway, with its eerie ambiance and creeping shadows, was a fitting stage for his dark endeavors, a place where fear and folklore converged in a dance as old as time itself. As the portal stabilized, the otherworldly figures began to coalesce into more defined forms, their presence casting an even darker pall over the alley. Dmitri’s expression remained focused, his eyes reflecting the swirling chaos of the portal as he prepared to harness and control the dark forces he had summoned. The alleyway, once a mundane stretch of forgotten streets, had become a conduit for ancient powers, all under the watchful eye of the feared and revered “Baba Yaga”.
 
 “On night one of Relentless, my debut match is not just any match. No, it’s a showdown with Adam Garcia where I will plant my flag dead center of the ring. Garcia, you may think you know what it means to be relentless. You think you can comprehend the meaning of struggle and perseverance? Let me make one thing crystal clear. You don’t have the faintest idea of what it takes to endure true suffering and emerge victorious. They’ve told me that you were a certified killer, imagine my disappointment after I overwhelm, overpower, and subjugate you in front of the entire world. Annihilation is the only way, once the bell tolls you will find out I am not like any other man that you have ever faced, I’m candy-coated poison and I’ll butcher you before you even understand what happened.”
 
Dmitri’s eyes narrow, his gaze penetrating the darkness as if searching for Adam.
 
“You see, Adam, while you’ve been flaunting your so-called skills in the limelight, I’ve been battling through the murkiest corners of existence. You’ve been basking in your comfort zone, while I’ve been training in the crucible of pain. You may have won your share of matches, but I’m a force of reckoning. You’ve never encountered a man who has been tempered by the fires of unrelenting torment. You are not on my level, or the level below me.”
 
Dmitri raises his fists, his voice growing more intense.
 
“You’re not just stepping into a wrestling ring. You’re stepping on to the battlefield of a warrior forged in despair. I will tear through you with a ferocity that will leave you questioning your very will to fight. You think you can match my intensity? You think you can stand toe-to-toe with the embodiment of torment? Think again. I am the man who will ignite the new flame of professionally wrestling and carry the torch to the top of the mountain all by myself. The new era begins with me.”
 
He takes a step closer to the camera, his presence commanding attention.
 
“I am going to show you a level of brutality you’ve never experienced. They tell me that this will be the most predominant match of my career. No, no. Bearing a false witness is a sin. This match is going to be the greatest match of your career because everything that you stand for is on the line. You, my friend, have become a casualty of circumstance. Every strike, every slam, every blow will be delivered with the unwavering intensity of a man who knows no limits. You will feel the weight of my suffering and the strength of my resolve. You will feel every ounce of pain and fury that I have stored up, waiting in the cold confinement of a cell for this moment. And by the end of this match, you will be left battered, broken, and utterly defeated.”
 
Dmitri’s energy reaches a fever pitch, their excitement almost tangible.
 
“You think this is just another match? You think you’re just going to walk in and walk out with a victory? No, Adam, Relentless is a day of reckoning. The legend of “Baba Yaga” will be born anew in the XWF. I will dominate this ring, and you will be nothing more than a footnote in the history of my rise. I will make an example of you, proving that no matter how relentless you think you are, there is always a force greater, more terrifying, and more unstoppable.”
 
He raises his arm.
 
“So, brace yourself, Adam Garcia. Prepare for a clash that will echo through the annals of wrestling history. You face not just a man, but the embodiment of relentless fury and unyielding strength. I am Dmitri “Baba Yaga” Drako, and I will not be denied. I will not stop. And when this night is over, you will understand what it means to be truly relentless.”
 
With a final, piercing glare into the camera, Dmitri turns, his cloak swirling dramatically as he strides off the stage. The crowd’s roar crescendos, a blend of awe and anticipation as they await the impending clash.