Rain hammered the highway.

Headlights did nothing but make things worse. Everything outside was just black and water.

Mom was in the passenger seat. Dad was hunched forward with both hands on the wheel.

Me and Sean were in the back.

Eight years old at the time.

Same face, same haircut, and because mom thought it was cute, same outfit.

Sean beat me out by three minutes. Fucker always acted like that mattered. Like those three minutes made him the boss because he was 'wiser'.

We began to argue about something.

I don't remember what. 

Not like it mattered after...

A semi came across the median sideways.

Driver was probably sleep deprived and hopped up on gas station speed.

Dad said something, or well... it was more like a noise.

Then BAM!

Our world ended.

We flipped, and the seatbelt sliced into me so hard I didn’t feel it until later. Glass went everywhere. The inside of the car looked like a blender of glass and meat. 

Then the engine caught.

Mom and Dad were there, and then they weren’t.

Just… gone.

Erased from this world through fire and ash.

Me and Sean got thrown out somehow. 

I never decided if that was luck or the universe being cruel, as it tends to be. 

I remember the smell.

Gas.

Hot metal.

Wet dirt.

And then this sick sweet burn that I would later realize, was my parents.

I was staring up at the sky thinking, this is what dying looks like.

Sean found my hand. I didn’t even hear him at first, just felt his hand clamp down on mine.

Sirens. 

Red and blue cutting through the night. 

People yelling. 

Hands grabbing. 

A blanket. 

A stretcher. 

A flashlight in my eyes.

Then the hospital.

Needles.

Then doctors talking about us like we weren't in the room.

Then the moment you realize you’re not going home, because your home burned away on the highway.

We became orphans before we even knew what the word meant.

The orphanage was a shithole. No funds and lots of kids.

We would lay under our blankets and whisper escape plans like we were Clint Eastwood.

Escape from Alcatraz had just come out the previous year.

Dad took us, but mom was to never know.

She won't.

Weeks in that place quickly turned to months.

Families came through every now and then. Always checking us over like used furniture.

Never any buyers.

Until...

One day, this couple shows up. The Harrisons. Sean clicked with them instantly because of course he did. He had an aura about him. One that took him far in the XWF. 

It took him right out of that hellhole too.

Paperwork happened fast.

They only wanted one.

Sean begged them to take me too. 

Even the old hag that ran the place put in a word for me.

But Mr. Harrison took one look at me—Hyper. Mouthy. Angry. Impulsive.—and muttered: "Can’t manage both, sorry".

And that was that.

They took Sean.

Left me.

They split us like it was nothing.

I watched from the window as Sean got in their car. He kept waving until he was out of sight. I didn’t cry. Never did that pussy shit.

After that, I bounced around foster homes like a check from Barney Green. Every place had the same rules: Don’t fight, don’t talk back, don’t break anything... Basically don’t be me.

I tried for some, not for most.

Even then, it didn't last long.

School fights. Ditching. Mouthing off teachers.

A year later, and this tall guy walks in wearing a suit.

I looked up like, who the hell are you.

He smiled, but I remember thinking it looked fake as hell.

Said he represented an institution that had a special program. Told me they help kids like me.

Sounded bullshit to me, but it's not like I really had a choice.

So I went.




















Concrete.


Cinderblock.


That one flickering fluorescent light over the ring that buzzes louder than the flies.

Oh, and a mop bucket in the corner. 

Smells like bleach and ammonia mixed.

That must mean:


Graves stands in the ring.

Cape on.

Of course the cape’s on.

Behind him, a table. 

On it, lots of junk, but noticeably, a lighter, gas can, and fire extinguisher. 

He looks like he’s about to teach a lesson and probably catch a felony charge in the process.

Couple of new students sit outside of the ring in folding chairs that look like they survived wars with, or against Gravy.

One kid raises his hand.

Graves points without looking.

"Yeah. Use words."

The kid clears his throat.

"Uh… Mister Graves. We actually… training with fire? Like… for real?"

Graves squints. 

Internally he's thinking: I hate you already.

"Yes."

Kid nods slowly as his brain buffers.

"Because your match is in the Burning Gallery?"

Graves smiles: Not friendly—just teeth.

"Correct."

The other one's either brave or stupid.

"Isn’t that like… unsafe?"

Graves tilts his head.

"What an interesting question. Let me answer it in a way you’ll remember."

He walks over to the table and taps the fire extinguisher.


He snorts and turns back.

"Rule one."

He holds up one finger.

"Fire is honest."

He lets that hang as the students look to each other for answers.

"Fire doesn’t care who you are. Doesn’t care how many names you conquered. Doesn't care what kinda man you are. Doesn’t care if you got mommy issues or daddy issues or mental issues."

Pause.

A picture.


A spark.

Flames.


Ash.

"It only cares about oxygen."

One kid blurts out: "Like… breathing?"

Graves points like The Bulkster!

"YES! 

Like breathing."

He starts pacing.

Slow.

Predatory.

Slightly off-balance.

"Everybody thinks pain is the test. It ain’t. Pain is automatic. You touch fire? It hurts. Congratulations. Your nervous system works, dummy!"

Couple of nervous laughs...

Graves don't.

"Reaction is the test."

He stops and stares at them.

"Because reaction just feeds what’s trying to eat you."

He looks up at the flickering light.

"You ever see a moth slam into a bulb till it looks like a burnt booger on the floor?"

No one answers.

He nods anyway.

"That moth ain’t brave. 

That moth’s stupid. 

Wrong light."

He walks to the table and we get a better view: Lighter. Tape. Water bottle. Bag of chips nobody’s claiming.

He picks up the lighter again.


Small flame.

Calm.

"Some men scream at fire."


Flame gone.

"Some men stand in it and call it growth."


Flame back.

"And some men…"

He studies the flame.

"…use it."

He loosely wraps wrist-tape around his forearm and raises the lighter.

Kid starts to say something: "Sir?"

Graves ignores him and touches flame to tape.

It catches quick.

Orange. Hungry. Moving.

Students jump before he does.

One squeaks. One half-stands.

Graves just watches the flame crawl up his arm.

No flinch.

Just a slim grin behind his mask and eyes that are a little too wide.

A kid finally cracks.

"DOESN’T IT HURT?!"

Graves turns his head all slow.

"Yeah...

Of course it hurts."

He takes a step toward them. Arm still blazing.

"What kinda dummy-ass question is that?"

He stammers: "You’re not… you’re not screaming—"

Graves shrugs.

"I ain’t screaming ‘cause I ain’t a bitch."

The other kid laughs, but regrets it immediately.

Graves just keeps on smiling.

"If I scream, what happens?"

Silence.

Confusion.

Blank stares.

He nods at one kid.

"Answer."

"People look?"

"Yeah, and help!"

He raises his burning arm higher.

"No! They react. They feed it."

The flame climbs.

"So if I act like these flames own me?"

He taps his head with his free hand.

"Somebody panics. Somebody trips. Somebody tries to save me. Somebody becomes part of it...

...I don’t become part of things."

He grabs the water bottle. 

Dumps it.


Steam.

"I end ‘em."

Burnt tape smell fills the room.

He never looks at his arm. He watches them.

Like they’re an experiment.

The tape hangs soggy and black.

He peels it off slow. Skin underneath red. Missing a few layers.

He tosses the tape in the trash.

Nobody blinks.

One kid finally whispers: "That’s insane."

Graves nods.

"Better to be insane than unsane."

The other kid raises a hand again. 

Graves points.

"What?"

"So… if reaction feeds it… how do you not react?"

Graves smiles again.

"You do react."

He taps his temple again.

"You just choose when."

He paces again.

"You don’t perform fear. 

You don’t decorate it. 

You don’t throw a tantrum on camera because somebody said ‘mother’ and your brain short-circuited because yours is an evil whore."

The students glance at each other.

They know.

Graves keeps moving.

"You ever see a guy who thinks being gross is the same thing as being dangerous?"

He chuckles.

"That ain’t danger. 

That’s branding. 

Wholesale degeneracy—

—with a BIG

BLACK

bar!"

Kid blurts:

"You mean Dyson?"

Graves looks at him like he just swallowed a quarter and shat out a nickel.

"KindaCarver?"

He rubs his burned arm absentmindedly as moist flakes fall to the ground.

"Yeah. Him."

His attention diverts to the camera.

"I saw you rage when Kris mentioned your mother.

Everyone saw it.

Your mini meltdown with Kris traveled far.

Even in that third world neighbor of ours—Canada.

Fitting that our first real meeting comes to be in a place proud of the biggest wagon wheel in the world.

Big circle.

Keeps rolling over the same ground.

That’s you.

Same act. Brighter lights.

You wanna scream about mothers, KindaCarver?

Go ahead.

You already light up every room like you’re auditioning for trauma of the year.

You don't hear me whining about mine.

Mine burned early.

Took daddy with her.

Left me and Sean to sort it out."

Graves flicks his teeth, slow.

"You perform pain.

I survive it.

And you standing there with your little cult and your glowing eyes and your Carveresque theatrics thinking you’re some grand architect of sexy chaos?

You look like a mall goth who discovered stage lighting.

You call it art.

I call it cosplay.

Overused word of the month, right?

Thing is, that don't change it from being true.

I ran with the real thing once.

Shaney-boy didn’t need an audience to feel dangerous.

He just hurt you.

Physically.

Mentally.

Spiritually.

He hurt you.

And you knew he meant it.

You?

You need witnesses.

You get off on the looks of horror in the crowd.

You beg for that reaction.

Any reaction.

Any emotion.

To fill something we both know ain't fillin'."

A smirk cracks under his mask.

"Now I see where the vamp gets it from...

You killed someone?

Big deal.

RealCarver leveled arenas and showed up the next week like nothin' even happened.

If you wanna brush up on your history, John Black's got some stories to tell.

Whatever it is you're doing with your Rollerwhores.

With the vamp.

It ain't The Black Circle.

That's real power.

Real fear.

Real control.

We broke anyone who stood in our path.

And we did it with him leading the charge.

You’re not that.

You’re KindaCarver.

Neutered for a modern audience.

Shock with guard rails.

Evil with branding.

You think you’re untouchable because you built a personality around being grotesque.

I don’t care about grotesque.

I care about function.

And function says I don’t have to beat Isaiah King.

I don’t have to out philosophy the Honest King while he’s busy writing diary entries about self-discovery.

King’s trying to win himself back.

I’m trying to win a managers belt.

Different missions.

King wants truth.

You want reaction.

I want the ONE, TWO, THREE.

That’s it.

You keep quoting dated comedies, because that's all you are.

"He made you bleed your own blood."

You say it like it’s poetry.

I’ve been bleedin' for decades.

And when the bell rings?

You don’t get a grotesque segment.

You don’t get time to monologue about how misunderstood you are.

You get grabbed.

You get dropped.

And you get counted like the jerk-off you are.

You’re clinging to an image.

King’s clinging to 'honesty'.

I don’t cling to nothing.

The past stays dead.

Shane’s not coming back.

Sean’s not coming back.

King's best days are behind him.

And cheap imitations don’t get celebrated.

They get discarded.

You want to scream about mothers?

Scream.

You want to hypnotize middle management?

Do it.

You want to dip yourself in mayonnaise and dominate over dimwits?

Enjoy it.

Just understand something.

Between them ropes;

You’re not an artiste.

You’re not a cult leader.

You’re not a red-eyed demon.

You’re a body with a championship attached to it.

And I only need the body flat for three seconds.

That’s your entire legacy.

Temporary.

Just like all imitations."

Graves looks away from the lens and back at the students like he just remembered that this is supposed to be a class.

"Alright," he says.

He rubs the burn.

His fingers come away shiny and wet.

He wipes them on his pants without thinking.

"One more question."

A kid raises his hand.

Graves points: "Yeah. Spit it out."

The kid clears his throat.

"So... you said Dyson needs reaction. Like... he needs people to look."

"To make him feel—hurry it up!"

The kid rushes.

"Well, King... King doesn't do that. King just... talks about truth. And standing. And honesty. And whatever."

The other student recoils like he's expecting Graves to snap.

Graves doesn't snap.

He smiles.

Which may be worse.

"Keep going."

The kid swallows.

"Isn't that... kinda what you said? Like... reaction is optional? So doesn't King kinda... have it figured out?"

Graves lets out a laugh that isn't joyful at all.

"No."

He walks to the table. Knocks the gas can with his knuckles.


"That's gasoline."

He taps the lighter.

"This is fire."

He lifts his burned arm slightly.

"That's pain."

Then he points at the kid.

"And what King does?

He stands there.

He stands in the fire."

He nods.

"Chest out. Chin up. Talking about truths."

He paces again.

"Talking about accounting. Talking about honesty. Talking about ‘if I lose, I’ll say it.’"

He stops and looks directly into the lens.

"And that sounds real brave…"

He tilts his head real slow.

"...until you realize he’s just building a crash-pad."

A student frowns.

Graves points at him.

"You never notice that?

How he keeps saying ‘If I lose.’

He keeps rehearsing it."

He shrugs.

"‘If he beats me, I’ll admit it.’

That ain’t courage.

That’s foreshadowing your own demise."

He walks toward the ropes, leaning over them.

"‘I just want the truth.’"

He shakes his head slowly.

"No.

You just want it to sound noble when you come up short."

He steps back into the center of the ring.

"You call yourself the Lonely King.

Lonely because you won’t stab the men standing next to you.

Lonely because you won’t go all in.

Lonely because it’s easier to stand near the top and talk about almost…"

He spreads his arms.

"...than it is to shove somebody over the edge and risk falling with them."

He looks straight into the camera now.

"You say you caught lightning once."

He nods.

"Yeah.

And now you walk around carrying the jar, hoping it happens again.

But lightning don’t strike jars.

It strikes towers.

And I didn't come back to be short."

A student shifts in their chair.

Graves keeps going.

"You say you’re done chasing.

You say you’ll stand where he pretends not to look."

He shrugs.

"Cool.

Stand there.

But understand something."

He points at the mat.

"When you stand still in fire long enough…

...you ain’t proving bravery.

You’re just proving you’re willing to burn."

He lifts his burned arm again.

"This?

This ain’t poetry.

I didn’t narrate it.

I didn’t preface it.

I didn’t say ‘if this hurts, I’ll own it.’"

He looks at the students.

"I lit it.

I endured it.

I dealt with it.

You keep telling the world you’re not afraid of the truth ending you."

He nods.

"I believe you.

You’re not afraid of losing."

He leans forward slightly.

"You’re afraid of winning."

Silence.

"You’re afraid of the weight.

You’re afraid of the follow-up.

You’re afraid that if you get back on top and fall again…

...there won’t be words pretty enough to save it."

He straightens up and adjusts his ribs.

"So you stand in that fire."

"You talk about growth."

"About honesty."

"About revelation."

He shrugs.

"I don’t need any of it.

I just need three seconds.

You want to cleanse the industry?"

He smirks.

"I want the belt.

You want to kill the lie?

I want to kill the king."

He tilts his head.

"And here’s the part you can’t counter without proving me right…

If you lose?

You’ll explain it beautifully.

If I lose?

I won’t explain a damn thing."

He taps his temple.

"That’s the difference between a man trying to survive the narrative…

...and a man trying to survive the fire.

You call yourself Honest."

He nods.

"I call you prepared.

And preparation for defeat…"

He shrugs.

"...is still preparation for defeat."

Crooked grin.

"You don’t want to be king again.

You want closure.

I'll give it to you."

Graves looks at the students.

"Alright. Final lesson."

The two kids stiffen.

Graves points at the first one.

"You, in the blue hoodie. Get in the ring."

The kid hesitates.

Graves tilts his head.

"Or leave now and forfeit your tuition. Those are your options."

The kid climbs in as Graves looks at the second one.

"You, stay there."

He walks toward the table.

"Your job is simple. If something goes wrong? You put it out."

And grabs the fire extinguisher.

"Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Graves hands it off and looks back at the one in the ring.

"You trust him?"

The kid glances at his classmate.

"I… yeah. I guess."

Graves smiles.

"Adorable."

He walks to the table.

Picks up the gas can.

The kid in the ring freezes.

"Sir—"

Graves unscrews the cap and pours a thin line across his own chest. Not soaking. Just enough.

The kid in the ring takes a step back.

The one outside the ring grips the extinguisher tighter.

Graves sets the gas can down and looks at them both.

"Here’s the problem with fire."

He flicks the lighter, producing a small flame.

"You can plan it."

He flicks it again.

"You can measure it."

Again.

"You can try to control it."

He looks at the second kid.

"You ready?"

The kid nods, white as a ghost.

Graves touches the flame to his chest.


It catches fast.

The students weren’t ready for how fast.

The kid in the ring screams immediately and dives for the ropes.

The kid outside yanks the extinguisher pin and squeezes.

Nothing.

He squeezes again.

Nothing.

He slams it with his palm.

Nothing.

The flame spreads up Graves’ shoulder.

The first kid's in a full panic.

Screaming for the door.

And gone.

The second kid looks between Graves and the useless extinguisher.

His hands shake.

"IT’S NOT WORKING!!!"

Graves doesn’t scream.

He doesn’t even move much.

He just watches him.

"Then figure it the fuck out before you're responsible for my death!"

"I CAN’T!"

The flame grows higher.

The kid drops the extinguisher and bolts.

Door slams.

Silence.

Graves finally grabs the water bottle from earlier.

He dumps it.

Not enough left.

He grabs his cape instead, and smothers the flame until it dies down.

The room smells like melted spandex and burnt chicken fat.

He stands there breathing heavy.

He looks toward the door where both students ran, then steps over the ropes and walks toward the empty chairs.

Only one student remains.

The quiet one.

Still sitting there.

"You didn’t run. Why?"

The kid swallows.

"I… didn’t know where to go."

Graves studies him.

Then nods slowly.

"Most important lesson about fire?"

He gestures to the dead extinguisher.

"You can prepare for it.

You can trust someone to handle it. 

You can even think you’re ready for it."

He leans forward slightly.

"But once it’s loose?"

He smirks.

"It does what it wants.

You think King stands in fire because he’s brave?"

He shakes his head.

"No.

He stands in it because he thinks he understands it.

He thinks if he names it, narrates it, dissects it… it'll behave."

Graves looks up.

"Fire doesn’t behave.

It spreads.

And when it spreads? The people who swore they’d handle it?"

He jerks his head toward the door.

"They run."

He steps closer.

"You don’t win by standing in it.

You don’t win by explaining it.

You don’t win by dreaming up the most fucked way to exploit it."

He taps the kid’s forehead.

"You win by surviving it long enough to let it eat somebody else."

He straightens up.

"When that bell rings?

There’s no extinguisher.

Nobody waiting to save you...

There's just oxygen.

And I’m taking it."

His eyes bulge as he takes in a deep, exaggerated breath, then walks past the kid without another word.

Until..

"Class dismissed."