The curtain flutters shut as Charlie Nickles stumbles into the gorilla position beaten, bloodied, and embarrassed. A grotesque mixture of bodily fluids drips down his face, leaving a teary-eyed trail on the ground with each step. The low hum of backstage chatter from the production staff seems warped, almost like it’s coming from underwater.

And then, the laughter begins rolling in.

Their vicious mockery echoes through his mind.

At first, it’s faint—just a chuckle, barely audible. But it grows, surrounding Charlie, ridiculing him, like the whole XWF is in on some cruel joke. Charlie’s neck snaps around, his vision blurred from the pouring blood. The former champion scans the gorilla position, expecting to see the smirks, the sneers, the knowing looks. But…he sees nothing out of the ordinary from behind his red veil. 

No one is laughing.

The backstage staff go about their business, heads down, focused on their tasks, barely even acknowledging Charlie’s existence. Some glance at Charlie and offer a few kind words before returning to their work. Not even a flicker of amusement crosses their faces. For them, this is just another day at the office.

But the laughter lingers, like it’s stuck in the back of Charlie’s mind, twisting reality around him. As Charlie stumbles deeper into the backstage area, the lights above flicker, casting dark shadows on the walls. They cling to the edges of his vision, moving unnaturally, like dark tendrils reaching out for him. He shakes his head, trying to blink away the haze, but the shadows only grow more restless, surging like ripples on water.

As Charlie trudges towards his locker room the shadows swim beside him, circling his legs, their shapes shifting with the uneven light. There's something off about the way they move— it’s too fluid, too smooth. It’s like watching a predator glide just beneath the surface of dark waters. The shapes elongate, growing more distinct, but never fully clear. One moment they blur into the ground, nothing more than smudges of darkness. The next, they seem to twist and curve, sleek and ominous, like fins cutting through an unseen current. The shadows slide up the walls, dipping and weaving in a slow, predatory rhythm that tightens around Charlie’s neck like a noose.

Charlie’s breath hitches as vicious laughter fills his ears, mocking his every step. He glances around, trying to catch someone—anyone—laughing, but everyone is absorbed in their tasks. No one hears it. No one sees the shadows circling him.

He glances over his shoulder with a stomach full of dread, but there’s nothing there. Then, all at once, the mocking shadows melt away- slipping back into the depths like a predator vanishing beneath the surface.

Charlie finally stumbles into his locker room after Warfare, still reeling from his grueling loss. As Charlie sits with his back against the wall, a scornful voice echoes through his mind. A familiar silhouette appears as a shadow against the wall—sharp, authoritative, taunting.

"You think you're the pack leader, Charlie? Ha! Not anymore."

The disembodied voice drips with condescension, circling Charlie like a predator. Charlie's own shadow on the wall begins to jerk unnaturally, limbs twitching as though controlled by invisible strings. Slowly, Charlie’s silhouette morphs into a trembling puppet, its movements dictated by unseen hands, helpless as the strings tug tighter.

"They took your title, and you just let them do it! That makes you weak. You’ve lost your place at the top. You have no respect, no power. No one fears a loser, Charlie."

Charlie's breath quickens, the words sinking into him, breaking through his thin veneer of control. He shuts his eyes, but the disembodied voice only grows louder as the familiar silhouette creeps closer to his distorted shadow along the wall.

"You want to get back on top? You want to be the XOTUS?  Then you need my help."

The voice softens, but the malice is still there, dripping with false reassurance. Against the dull glow of the locker room wall, the shadows shift, bending into shapes that shouldn't exist. The familiar silhouette looms, slipping closer to Charlie’s own dark outline. In one smooth motion, the shape of a glass pipe is passed into the trembling grasp of Charlie’s shadow.

"Take this. It'll make it all better. One little hit, Charlie. Just like old times."

Charlie feels something cold pressed into his hand—an all-too-familiar sensation, a temptation he’s been resisting for months. He stares at the glass pipe, his pulse racing, as that taunting voice creeps back in.

"Come on, Charlie. Don’t fight it. You’re not strong enough to do this alone. You never were. For once in your life, don’t you want to be the alpha? Don’t you want to be in control?"

A mocking laughter follows, echoing in Charlie’s mind, twisting the knife of his own self-doubt even deeper.

The shadow of a flame flickers across the wall as glass shards shatter across the floor.

Charlie sits slumped on the edge of a stiff, stained mattress in his dingy hotel room. He spends hours trying to sleep, trying to find peace in this world: but there will be no rest for him on the night of his defeat. His head throbs, every pulse sending a wave of nausea through him as the fog in his brain thickens. Charlie rubs his temples, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory from the locker room- but it’s all a blur.

What happened after his match?

Did he—no, he couldn’t have.

But the doubt gnaws at him, the familiar paranoia creeping in.

He doesn’t remember the walk back, he doesn’t remember what he might’ve done, and the question hammers away at him:

Did he relapse after his loss? 

The dizziness, the nausea, the restlessness—he knows these feelings all too well. His eyes drift to the floor where cockroaches scuttle across the cracked tiles, their skittering movement almost hypnotic, but in his daze, he’s not sure if they’re real or if his brain is simply playing tricks on him again. He could’ve sworn that cockroaches weren’t supposed to have dorsal fins!

I need to…call…the Doctor…

Charlie fumbled for the phone, his hand slick with sweat, his grip unsteady as though the device was slipping through his fingers. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, loud and erratic, drowning out any coherent thought. The overhead light seemed to pulse, swelling in intensity until the entire room was bathed in a blinding white haze, edges blurring, the walls tilting slightly in his peripheral vision. His breath became shallow, and for a moment, he wasn’t even sure if he was holding onto the phone or grasping at something unreal, like the empty space between worlds.

Only then did the good Doctor answer his call.

"Oh Charles, how nice of you to call me again after all this time. Tell me, how long has it been since we last spoke?"

"Doc..I don’t….I don’t think I’m feeling good…."

"Well of course you’re not feeling WELL, Charles! The Shark took your title….and you just let him do it! How embarrassing. How humiliating."

"I…I….think I need to go the hospital, Doc…nothing feels right…everything is spinning…"

"Well, what did you call me for then? Do you want me to come make a house call, change your nappies, and tell you that you’ll do better next time?

I won’t ever lie to you, Charles.

You always knew this was inevitable."

"But Doc, I…I think I’m sick."

"Dope sick, perhaps."

"No Doc, it’s not that…maybe I have a contusion…confusion…I just…I think I’m really hurt this ti-"


CLICK


Charlie hung up the phone when he heard the click on the other end, his hand trembling as he set it down. The call had been useless—of course no one was going to help him. He had burned every bridge he crossed, and now in his moment of need, he was truly alone…or was he?

Charlie’s heart raced, anxiety twisting in his gut as the walls seemed to close in around him. He glanced across the room, desperate for anything to distract him from the gnawing dread, but then he saw it. A figure slumped in the chair by the door, its shadowy form looming larger in his mind. The bald head, the heavy jowls—its eyes seemed to cut right through him, watching him, judging him.

“They’re stealing your power, Charlie…but I can help you get it back. You have to trust me. We can still stop this steal!”

The voice filled the room, bouncing off the cracked walls and dingy ceiling, seemingly emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The voice was gravelly and thick with a nasal drawl that grated against the ears. The voice swirled around Charlie, growing louder, harsher, pressing in from every corner—like it knew him intimately, like it had always been there, waiting.

“I’m the only one in your cabinet who can help you now, Charlie.”

Charlie’s eyes locked onto the shadow in the chair, its hunched form just barely visible. He blinked hard, unsure if someone was actually there or if his mashed-potato brain was tricking him again. The shape didn’t move, didn’t shift—it just sat there, an outline barely clinging to the edges of reality. But the voice... the voice was unmistakable. It cut through the air with remarkable clarity, as if the shadow didn’t need to be real for its words to burrow into Charlie’s skull. He swallowed hard, unable to shake the feeling that whether the shadow existed or not, the voice certainly did- and it wasn’t lying to him.

“This whole conspiracy goes all the way to the top! Everyone in the XWF wants to see you fail. That’s why they treat you the way they do, but you just have to remember: you’re still the XOTUS.”

"I am?"

“You are, and you always will be. It’s not a championship belt that makes you powerful, Charlie: it’s your willingness to lie, to cheat, and to steal. It’s your uncanny capacity to do the unthinkable. It’s your complete lack of morals and dignity that makes you the most dangerous man in the XWF.”

"I don’t want to be like that anymore! I just want to be normal like everyone else!"

The shadow in the chair seemed to lean forward, its hollow form growing sharper, like some grotesque figure of corruption looming in judgment. Its head tilted slightly, as if in mocking disappointment, while the voice dripped with disdain.

"You could’ve been more."

The shadow sneered as it’s words crawled out of the dark corners of Charlie’s mind.

"You had the instincts, the ruthlessness... but you always hesitate. You pretend you’re something else, someone better."

The shadow loomed larger, swelling ominously as it began to engulf the walls, its leering gaze fixed on Charlie.

"Embrace it. That filth, that deceit—it’s your nature. You’re not built for anything else. And every time you fight it, you’re weaker."

The words hung in the air, cold and biting, as if the shadow knew every ugly truth Charlie tried to deny.

"You’ve dethroned champions and ruined careers with nothing but words. You’ve shattered records, torn down walls that no one dared to even touch. Yet every time you reach the precipice, you falter, clinging to that weak little voice you call your conscience. Listen to me instead, and I’ll show you the darkness you’ve been too afraid to embrace—the deepest, most evil actions you've buried, the ones that prove just how far you can fall. If you don't, I'll make sure you remember them... whether you like it or not."

The figure's shadowy hand stretched out, long and skeletal, creeping toward the bedside table. As its fingers nearly touched the surface, the shadows suddenly dissolved, vanishing into thin air. All that was left behind was a glass pipe, gleaming on the table.

Time is always stretching and warping, moving at a rate we can’t quite comprehend yet are forced to endure. The days bleed into each other like thick fog rolling over an endless horizon. We drift through our routines with the eerie calm of creatures trapped in a loop. Mornings are spent scavenging through the Goodwill donation bins for clothes, our fingers brushing against the fabric as if we’re searching for something lost in the seams. The afternoons spent cruising through restaurants, looking for DoorDash orders to steal: a brief escape from the crushing monotony, but even the food tastes like ash. By nightfall, we return to our dens, rickety structures that creak and groan with every gust of wind. Inside, it’s cold, it’s damp, but it’s ours. We curl up in bed, staring at the peeling walls, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence. Maybe tomorrow will be better, but even that thought feels hollow.

All we can do is try…right?

Charlie sat there, curled up in his bed- feeling exactly how all of us feel every night. Or at least that’s what he thought. But maybe, he thought- maybe this is a punishment all his own. Maybe life isn’t like this for the others: maybe this was a fate wrought onto himself. For every misdeed, for every foul word, for every hit of the pipe: maybe this is what it was always meant to lead to.

Charlie had done his best to stay on the straight and narrow path since his return, even if -his best- was the lowest possible standard. Yet still, Charlie fought his deepest and darkest urges every day. Charlie lay awake in his den, the silence of the night pressing down on him like a weight. He rolled over, trying to shake the feeling of dread creeping up his spine.

That’s when he saw it: a shadow, small but unmistakable, standing at the foot of his bed.

At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, a side effect of the drugs he’s long since kicked, the lingering fog of a mind too tangled in guilt. But as the shadow took shape, something familiar struck him—a silhouette of a young luchadora, the mask unmistakable, her figure slight but strong, poised with the same fighting spirit that had once made her a rising star in the XWF.

She was lost to the void, and it was all Charlie’s fault. The image of her—young, hopeful, full of life—was now forever frozen in the memory of that day. The day he had pushed for more, pushed for glory, when all she had wanted was her father at her side. The pride, the accolades, the impending TRIAD draft—he’d chased them like a man desperate for validation, while she had been made into his sacrifice, her neck crushed under the weight of his drug-addled ambitions.

Charlie’s breath caught in his throat as the shadow of the luchadora flickered, her form shifting like a wisp of smoke. In the stillness, her presence was deafening. Her small, now headless frame moved silently, and for a moment, he thought he could hear the faintest rustle of fabric—the soft echo of a struggle that never should have happened. His chest tightened with the knowledge of the truth he could never escape. He had chosen his career over her life. Her death had been the price of his selfishness, and now, in the quiet hours of the night, she was here to remind him.

His guilt clawed at him, suffocating him, as the shadow lingered, unblinking. He couldn't look away. He couldn't make it stop. Charlie’s own pride had built the walls around him, but it was the shadow of the luchadora that would haunt him forever. He had sold his soul for a #1 draft pick, and now the price was going to be paid—every night, in the darkness, when the ghost of her, and the weight of his sacrifice, whispered just out of reach.