The camera comes back from commercial break, and we see Morales giving a backstage interview after his match 

Madd Morales stands beneath the lights with the Valor Championship secured around his waist, dressed in black slacks and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Rook stands several feet to his right, Graves to his left. Neither man speaks. Neither needs to. They are there because lately, wherever Morales goes, one or both of them seems to be somewhere nearby.

Across from Morales, the interviewer glances at her notes before looking back toward him.

“First of all, Madd, congratulations on another successful defense of the Valor Championship. Rayven pushed you considerably further than some expected, but you survived, which puts you one step closer to the five defenses necessary to challenge for the Conquest Championship. Unfortunately, you learned earlier tonight that defense number four is going to be considerably more complicated. At Civil Unrest, the Valor Championship will be defended in a Triple Threat match. This will be an unusual situation for a Valor Champion. You'll be defending against two challengers simultaneously, which means you technically don't have to be involved in the decision to lose the championship."

Morales stares at her.

"Thank you. I understand how a Triple Threat works."

"I wasn't suggesting you didn't."

"No, no, you're doing your job. I'm sorry."

He raises his hand.

"I'm just trying to understand which incompetent motherfucker sitting behind a desk looked at the Valor Championship, looked at every champion who held it before me, looked at every rule and precedent surrounding this championship, and suddenly decided Madd Morales was the perfect person to experiment on. Because let's call this exactly what it is. I'm being asked to do something no Valor Champion before me has been asked to do. I'm being asked to defend this championship against two people simultaneously. I don't have to be pinned to lose my championship. I don't have to submit. I don't even have to make a mistake. I could wrestle the perfect match. I could beat one of those people half to death, have victory sitting right there in the palm of my hand, and lose because contestant number fucking three happens to be standing three feet away at the right moment."

The interviewer cautiously raises a finger.

"Technically..."

Morales immediately narrows his eyes. The interviewer continues.

"Technically, you wouldn't be the first Valor Champion to defend under those circumstances. Miguel did defend the Valor Championship in what ultimately became a Triple Threat match."

Morales' expression goes completely blank.

The interviewer elaborates.

"It originally began as a handicap match and then became a Triple Threat, but technically..."

"No."

She stops.

Morales waves his hand dismissively.

"Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing that."

"I'm just pointing out..."

"Semantics."

Morales makes a sweeping motion with his hand as if physically throwing the argument away.

"That's wrestling historian bullshit. That's the kind of technicality somebody posts online at three in the morning because they desperately need to win an argument with a stranger named XxEliteMark420xX."

Rook snorts. Even the interviewer laughs.

Morales points toward her.

"You said it yourself. It started as a handicap match."

"Yes."

"Then we're done."

"But it became..."

"Nope."

Morales waves her off again.

"Different circumstances. Different match. Different situation. Miguel walked into one thing and circumstances changed around him. Congratulations to Miguel. Put an asterisk beside it, write a footnote, carve it into a fucking tablet if that makes everybody happy. What I'm talking about is what they're asking me to do right now, and what they're asking me to do is bullshit. I have three successful defenses. Three. Do you understand what that means? I'm two away. I can see the finish line. I can practically reach out and touch the Conquest Championship from where I'm standing, and suddenly somebody decides the fourth defense should come with a brand new rulebook.”

The interviewer waits until he finally stops.

“So you believe you're being deliberately targeted?”

Morales immediately looks at her.

“I didn't say that.”

Morales looks down at the Valor Championship. His fingers slowly loosen around the leather.

“No. I'm not doing that. No excuses.”

His breathing settles.

The anger remains somewhere underneath, but the explosion is over.

“Actually, forget everything I just said.”

The interviewer looks confused.

“Forget it?”

“Not literally. You already recorded it. I'm sure somebody will clip it and throw it online before I get out of this building. Let them. I was angry. I had every right to be angry. But anger doesn't solve the problem sitting in front of me. And I solve problems.”

Graves smiles faintly.

“So let's look at this differently. I'm the first Valor Champion forced to defend his championship in a Triple Threat match. Good.”

The interviewer raises an eyebrow.

“Good?”

“Absolutely. Because I've spent two and a half years hearing about expectations. What Madd Morales should be. What Madd Morales could be. What Madd Morales failed to become. Every time I reach whatever line somebody draws in front of me, they move it another ten feet and ask whether I can reach that one too.”

He shrugs.

“Eventually you realize something.”

Morales looks directly into the camera.

“They aren't moving the line because they think you can't reach it. They're moving it because they're terrified of finding out how far you can go.”

The frustration has disappeared from his voice completely, replaced by his usual arrogant swagger.

“So make me the first. Put two challengers across from me. Hell, put three in there next time. Four. Five. Turn the entire fucking roster loose and tell them whoever takes this championship from me gets a bonus. I'll adapt because that's what I've always done.”

He taps the championship.

“I didn't get here because circumstances were fair. I got here because circumstances weren't fair and I kept winning anyway.”

He looks toward Rook.

“First?”

Rook grins.

“Nothing new.”

Morales turns toward Graves.

“Impossible?”

Graves speaks.

“Usually temporary.”

Morales turns back toward the camera.

“There you go.”

He spreads his arms.

“I've been the first before. I've been the idiot willing to jump when everyone else was smart enough to stay on the ground. I've been the man willing to turn matches into car crashes because I knew I could crawl out before everybody else. I've walked into situations where nobody expected me to survive and turned surviving into the least impressive thing I accomplished that night. So congratulations to whoever made the decision. You gave me something new.”

His smile disappears.

“Now watch me become the first man to master it. Three defenses down. Defense number four gets an asterisk next to it because nobody else has ever had to do it this way. Fine by me. When this is finished, I don't want my reign compared to anyone else's anyway.”

He steps closer to the interviewer.

“I want theirs compared to mine.”

At that moment his phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket and hands it to Rook who answers. He nods and then whispers in Morales ear. There is a twinge of annoyance and then he nods.

“I will see you all at Civil Unrest. I have to go and handle business now.”

LATER THAT DAY

The Freaks are waiting for him. Morales knows that before he even enters the room. He can hear them. Usually that sound would make him smile.

Tonight, it makes his jaw tighten.

He stops outside the door for half a second, closes his eyes and collects himself. Then the irritation disappears. By the time Morales enters, the smile has returned.

The room is packed. More Freaks than last time.

Some are drinking. Others are playing cards. A handful are standing around talking loudly enough that conversations overlap one another. But the moment Morales enters with Rook and Graves behind him, attention begins shifting toward the champion.

Morales walks to the center of the room.

“Three.”

He holds up three fingers.

“Three defenses.”

Cheers immediately erupt.

Morales grins and raises the Valor Championship.

“Two more and this thing becomes the most valuable currency in professional wrestling.”

Someone raises a beer.

“To the Conquest Championship!”

The room erupts.

Morales laughs.

“To the Conquest Championship.”

For a moment, everything feels normal. Then someone speaks from the back.

“And what about us?”

The cheering fades.

Morales slowly lowers the championship.

There it is again. That question.

A younger Freak steps forward.

“You told us to wait after Karlie. We waited. You told us to wait for Rayven. We waited. Now you've got two people coming after you and you're still telling everybody to sit around doing nothing.”

Another voice joins him.

“We didn't come back for a vacation.”

A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.

Morales smiles.

“I know.”

He walks farther into the crowd.

“And believe me, nobody appreciates your enthusiasm more than I do. But you're looking at this backward. You think because you aren't fighting right now that nothing is happening. Everything is happening. Every defense brings us closer to the moment when this company has no choice but to acknowledge what we've built.”

One of the Freaks shakes his head.

“We could speed it up.”

“And risk everything?”

Morales keeps his voice pleasant.

“You think I don't want to turn you loose? You think I don't know exactly what happens when twenty angry motherfuckers stop asking permission? Of course I do. That's why I brought you back.”

His smile becomes thinner.

“But there is a difference between having a weapon and firing it every time somebody annoys you.”

The room grows quieter. Morales continues.

“Right now, I need patience. My time is coming, and when my time comes, your time comes with it. Two more defenses. That's all I'm asking.”

Someone scoffs.

“You keep saying that.”

Morales' eyes flick toward him.

For just a fraction of a second, the mask slips. Annoyance. Then it is gone.

“I keep saying it because the number keeps getting smaller.”

A few laughs relieve the tension. Morales nods.

“Enjoy this. Drink. Gamble. Get laid. Get arrested for something minor if you absolutely need stimulation, just don't make me bail you out before a show. Consider it paid vacation because when I finally call all of you back to work, I promise you're going to miss being bored.”

That earns a larger laugh. Morales turns toward the door.

“Two more.”

He raises the championship.

“Then we stop waiting.”

The Freaks begin talking again as Morales heads out.

Graves follows.

Morales catches his arm before he reaches the door.

His voice drops to a whisper.

“Keep them under control.”

Graves looks toward the room.

“How long?”

Morales' eyes remain on the Freaks.

“As long as you can.”

Graves studies him.

“And if I can't?”

Morales finally looks at him. Graves nods.

“Where are you going?”

Morales looks toward the hallway.

“To visit an old friend.”

MIDNIGHT
YOUR WINGS FAIL YOU, SERAPH(Ambiance)

White. That is the first thing the camera sees. An immaculate room without a visible door or window. It has a chair and mirrors. Dozens of them. Tall mirrors. Short mirrors. Ornate mirrors. Broken mirrors. Antique mirrors framed in tarnished silver. Modern mirrors without frames at all.

They form a circle. At the center stands Madd Morales.

Black suit. Black shirt. Valor Championship over his shoulder.

He turns slowly. Every mirror shows the room. Every mirror shows every other mirror. None of them show him.

Morales smiles.

“I love stories.”

His voice travels strangely through the room.

“I think I've always loved them. Stories are how human beings convince ourselves that chaos makes sense. We take thousands of years of murder, ambition, love, betrayal, greed and stupidity, and we turn it into something with a beginning, a middle and an end.”

He slowly walks around the circle.

“I already told you about Sisyphus. About the man and his boulder. About choosing to push even when the universe promises you'll never reach the top.”

One mirror flickers.  For less than a second, something appears.

Morales.

Wearing the Devil mask.

Then nothing.

“But tonight, I want to tell you another story.”

Morales stops.

“The story of Faust.”

Another mirror flickers.

The Devil stands behind him.

Morales doesn't turn.

“Faust was a man who had everything a reasonable person was supposed to want. Knowledge. Intelligence. Accomplishment. Respect. But there was a problem.”

Morales smiles.

“Reasonable was never enough.”

He walks again.

“Faust wanted more. More knowledge. More experience. More pleasure. More power. He wanted to reach beyond the limits imposed upon ordinary men and touch something greater.”

Another flicker.

Devil Morales is closer.

“So he made a bargain with Mephistopheles.”

Morales turns toward an empty mirror.

“The Devil.”

The reflection suddenly appears, its head tilted. Then disappears.

“Most people tell this story as a warning.”

Morales continues walking.

“They tell you ambition destroyed Faust. They tell you wanting too much is dangerous. They tell children the story because apparently humanity decided the appropriate lesson was that people should know their place.”

He chuckles.

“I've always hated that interpretation. Wanting more wasn't Faust's mistake. Ambition wasn't his sin. Refusing to accept the limitations handed to him wasn't his downfall.”

Morales approaches one mirror.

“The mistake was giving the Devil ownership.”

The Devil appears directly opposite him.

“The mistake was believing power had to belong to one of them.”

The reflection smiles beneath the mask.

Morales doesn't.

“Either Faust controls everything...”

The mirror flickers.

“...or Mephistopheles does.”

Another mirror catches the Devil.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon Morales stands surrounded by brief flashes of himself wearing the mask.

“But what if there was another answer? What if you don't destroy the Devil?”

A reflection appears.

“What if you don't surrender to him?”

Another.

“What if you understand him?”

Another.

“What if you learn exactly what he wants?”

Another.

“What if you learn what makes him hungry?”

The mirrors begin flickering faster.

“And then you put a chain around his fucking neck.”

Silence.

Every reflection disappears.

Morales stands alone in the white room.

Still absent from every mirror.

"There are two people I think deserve special mention before we finish our little story."

He turns toward another mirror.

"Rayven Reinhardt."

For the first time since entering the room, there is something resembling respect in Morales' expression. Not much. But enough.

"Rayven, I'll give you something most people don't get from me. You were good. Better than I expected, actually. You walked into that match talking about visions and psychic abilities and knowing things nobody else could know, and I laughed at you. I thought it was bullshit. Maybe it still is. Maybe you're psychic. Maybe you're incredibly observant. Maybe you're just a weird motherfucker who figured out how to convince everyone you can see around corners."

Morales chuckles.

"But you almost had me."

He nods slowly.

"I can admit that. That's the beautiful thing about being champion. I don't have to pretend every fight was easy. I don't have to rewrite history and tell everyone I dominated from bell to bell. You pushed me. You made me improvise. You made me reach deeper than I wanted to reach that night, and for a few moments, you probably saw exactly what you wanted to see."

A mirror flickers.

The Devil stands inside it.

"You saw Madd Morales struggling. You saw the champion getting tired. You saw the opening."

Morales turns slowly toward the mirrors.

"And maybe you thought you'd seen the future."

He smiles.

"You just didn't look far enough. Because you saw everything except the ending."

Morales pats the Valor Championship.

"Three."

His fingers remain against the faceplate.

"That's what your prophecy was worth."

His smile fades.

"Three defenses."

Morales turns away.

"So thank you, Rayven. Genuinely. You taught me something. You reminded me that these defenses aren't going to get easier just because I can see the finish line. You reminded me that somebody eventually will catch me if I start believing my own bullshit."

He glances toward the nearest mirror.

"And you reminded me why I came here."

For the briefest moment, the Devil Mask appears on a normal Morales.

Morales continues walking.

"But then there's somebody else."

His expression changes immediately.

"Trelisa Perrault."

No amusement. No respect.

"You know, Trelisa, we've been doing this for so long that I genuinely don't remember where the hatred started anymore. Maybe you do. You probably have a scrapbook somewhere. Dates circled. Pictures with my face scratched out. A little collection of all the terrible things Madd Morales did to justify whatever terrible thing you're planning to do next."

Morales shakes his head.

"And I don't care. That's the part you still haven't figured out."

His voice remains calm.

"You want me obsessed with you. You desperately want to be the center of my attention because you need to believe this thing between us means as much to me as it means to you."

He shrugs.

"It doesn't."

A mirror flickers.

"You hit me with iron knuckles. You cost me matches."

Another.

"You've attacked me when my back was turned and every single time, I got back up and went somewhere more important."

He adjusts the championship.

"That's what has to hurt."

His smile widens.

"You keep trying to become the villain in my story while I'm busy writing chapters that don't include you."

Morales walks toward one of the mirrors.

"Trelisa, I already told you what I thought about people who attack from behind. I've already told you what I think about cowards pretending vengeance somehow makes cowardice honorable. So I'm not going to repeat myself."

He reaches the mirror.

"But I will tell you this."

His reflection does not appear.

"You should be very careful about confusing restraint with forgiveness."

A flicker.

The Devil appears inches from Morales' face.

"You've gotten very comfortable attacking a man who has been actively trying to become better."

The reflection smiles.

Morales doesn't.

"You've gotten comfortable because every time you've crossed the line, I've stopped myself from crossing it with you."

Another mirror flickers. Then another.

"You think that means the old Morales is gone."

Morales slowly shakes his head.

"No."

He turns toward the center of the room.

"I finally understand what Faust didn't."

The Devil begins appearing throughout the circle.

One reflection.

Then three.

Then seven.

Then twelve.

All wearing the mask.

"I don't need to destroy the Devil."

Morales' voice echoes through the room.

"I don't need to pretend he isn't there. I don't need therapy to convince me he's some metaphor for unresolved trauma. I don't need to bury him underneath championships, applause, friendships or some desperate attempt to prove I've become a better person. I know exactly what he is."

Morales taps his chest.

"He's me."

Silence.

Every mirror now contains the Devil.

Morales alone remains absent.

"The anger. The ego. The cruelty. The part of me that enjoys hearing somebody scream when I know I'm the reason."

He stops.

"The part that doesn't want to win. The part that wants to hurt."

The Devils surrounding him slowly tilt their heads in unison.

"I spent years being afraid of that part of myself."

Morales laughs quietly.

"Then I spent years letting it control me."

He approaches one reflection.

"And both were mistakes."

He looks directly into the black eyes of the mask.

"Because a wild animal isn't dangerous only because it's violent."

Morales raises one hand and places his palm against the mirror.

"It's dangerous because nobody controls when it attacks."

The Devil places its palm against the opposite side.

Morales smiles.

"I control mine. I decide when the cage opens."

Morales lowers his hand.

"I decide who gets bitten."

He turns away from the reflection.

"And most importantly..."

The Devil pounds once against the other side of the glass.

Morales doesn't react.

"...I decide when it goes back inside."

Another impact.

Harder.

Morales keeps walking.

The mirrors begin trembling.

"I don't need a deal anymore."

A crack appears in one mirror.

"I don't need permission."

Another crack.

"I don't need him whispering instructions in my ear."

The Devil Mask appears directly behind Morales in every reflection.

"I tamed the Devil."

Morales stops in the exact center of the circle.

The mirrors become still.

His voice softens.

"And that's unfortunate for two people."

He slowly looks upward.

"Because Civil Unrest isn't going to be another defense."

The championship slides from his shoulder into his hand.

"I'm walking into a match where I can lose this without being beaten. Two people can decide my future without me having any say in the decision. Somebody can pin somebody else and erase three successful defenses while I'm standing six feet away."

His jaw tightens.

"Rayven already showed me what happens when I start getting comfortable. Trelisa already showed me what happens when people mistake restraint for weakness. And whoever walks into that Triple Threat believing they're about to capitalize on those lessons is going to discover something neither of them got to see." 

Morales turns toward the nearest Devil.

They stare at one another. Man and monster. Neither looks away.

"You understand?"

The Devil slowly smiles. Morales waits. Then the reflection nods. Morales smiles back.

"Good."

He straightens his jacket.

"Don't mistake this for freedom. This isn't your comeback. This isn't another deal."

He steps closer until his forehead nearly touches the glass.

"And this sure as hell isn't forgiveness."

Darkness begins swallowing the final light.

Just before everything disappears, Morales looks over his shoulder.

Morales grins.

"Let's remind them why I needed the leash in the first place."

The light dies.

For several seconds, the screen remains completely black.

Then comes the sound of glass shattering.