Darkness.
A soft tapping echoes in the void. Heel to floor. Slow. Measured. Unavoidable.
A faint light flickers on, revealing Kasheryn seated on the floor — knees pulled up, rocking gently. But his eyes aren’t here.
They’re somewhere older. Somewhere he never meant to return to.
“It didn’t start in the ring.”
The bulb above him flickers — and the room around him shifts. The walls warp. The floor becomes cracked linoleum. The air grows colder.
We’re no longer with Kasheryn.
We’re with Christian.
A younger Christian kneels in the Briar Orphanage hallway, breath shaking, sweat dripping down his face. His hands tremble against the floor.
A man stands behind him — not holy, not righteous, just certain. A hand grips the back of Christian’s neck.
“‘For whom the Lord loves, He chastens.’”
(Hebrews 12:6)
Christian winces. The hand tightens.
“This is love, Christian. This is how you grow.”
Christian tries to speak — tries to say he’s tired — but the Voice cuts him off.
“‘Endure hardship as discipline.’ Stand up.”
(Hebrews 12:7)
Christian forces himself to rise. His legs shake. His breath stutters.
“‘The testing of your faith produces endurance.’”
(James 1:3)
“And endurance is what separates the chosen from the forgotten.”
Christian’s eyes widen — not in understanding, but in fear.
“Again.”
The lights snap — the flashback tears away.
We’re back in the present. Kasheryn rocks slowly, eyes half‑closed, breathing steady.
“People think I learned to fight in the ring.”
“I learned in that hallway.”
“I learned that pain wasn’t punishment.”
“It was preparation.”
The bulb flickers violently — like the past is clawing at the edges of the present.
“And now… the ESFL wants to see what that preparation created.”
He rises slowly, like a shadow unfolding.
“They’re sending someone new.”
A faint smile. Not joy. Recognition.
“Someone who thinks they’re ready.”
“Someone who believes they understand what this place demands.”
“They don’t.”
“But they will.”
“Because the next lesson… is always harder than the first.”
Black.