06-25-2025, 04:04 PM
Sal Darius stormed into his lavish home, adorned with shiny mirrors and extravagant furniture. The sound of the door unlocking echoed through the empty halls. As soon as the door opened, he hurled his bag to the floor in a fit of rage.
“MOTHERFUCKER! This whole SCW management is rubbing filth on me, making me lose against these nobodies!” he shouted, breathing heavily. He began tearing off his clothes in frustration, stomping through the house in nothing but floral boxers.
“These fuckers! Fuck this clean lifestyle…” he muttered angrily, before heading upstairs.
He climbed the steps and opened the door to the only room on the upper floor. Inside, he approached a shelf and pulled back a white sheet, revealing a small packet hidden beneath. He stared at it—white powder. A ghost from his past. A phase that had once nearly destroyed him. He stood there, breathing harder, locked in a battle with temptation. “LET’S DO IT!” he yelled suddenly, only to throw the packet carelessly back into the sheets. He rubbed his head in frustration, torn between relapse and resolve. Stumbling into the bathroom, he turned on the shower. Steam quickly filled the space like a thick fog. With one hand on the wall, he shut his eyes, letting memories crash down on him.
The pain. The betrayal. The failure.
He opened his eyes, rage boiling over, and slammed his hand against the wall—twice. The second hit was too much. He grabbed his hand with the other, wincing and shouting in pain.
Water continued to pour down over his body as he stood there, screaming—not just from the injury, but from everything building inside him. The pain, the pressure, the past. All of it. Flooding out like the water around him.
He sat down below the shower and cried his eyes out. After he gets down processing the emotions. Sal gets up, he dries himself properly and looks at himself in the breath. Taking a huge breath. He talks to himself ‘maybe pro wrestling is the only thing that has saved me from that party life, I need to be extra committed to myself and this profession… IT'S TIME!’ Sal goes to bed and switches off.
The scene opens in a medical institute where Sal was having a conversation with a problem.
Doc: Soo, how far is your next fight?
Sal: About a week. Do you think I can recover by then?
Doc: Hard to say. Let the X-rays come. May I ask how this happened?
Sal: Well, I just slipped from the stairs and landed right on my hand.
Doc: Smirks... Come on? I mean, okay sure.
Sal: What's the smirk for?
Doc: Well, I do understand that pro wrestlers go through injuries all the time, and it's not an easy job. But to me, this looks a bit more than that.
Sal: More than that? What do you mean?
Doc: See, Sal, I am a professional, and I know the difference between suicidal injuries and match injuries.
Sal: You think I did this (While raising the injured hand) on purpose?
Doc: Well, I have some meetings to attend at the moment. But consider your mental health a bit more seriously. (Sal gets alert after listening to that.) We will WhatsApp you your X-rays, and don’t compete if you’re not okay.
The Freaky Darius was forged in hardship, and he’s convinced that adversity is something to embrace, not escape. He sees himself as a warrior, hardened by life, and views vulnerability as weakness. In his eyes, therapy is for the fragile—his only way forward is to fight. Time, he believes, builds the strength needed to battle inner demons. While this mindset reflects a classic case of toxic masculinity, it’s also the only approach that’s ever seemed to work for him. But Darius, the self-proclaimed King of the World of Hearts, has yet to realize that pro wrestling is just a stage—real life demands more than brute strength. If he doesn’t learn to separate his persona from his personal reality, he may end up fighting the wrong battles.
He places a palm over his face, eyes shut tight, sinking into a heavy cloud of regret, frustration, and confusion. Sal drifts inward, lost in thought, almost slipping into a dreamlike trance.
A vivid memory surfaces—he sees himself as a child, dressed in a school uniform, the heat of summer break just around the corner. A gang of bullies surrounds him, laughing as they smear glue into his hair. He comes home humiliated, the sticky mess clinging to his scalp like a reminder of helplessness. His mother helps clean it, but instead of comfort, she blames him. His father, cold and firm, tells him to fight back. That day, a belief was etched deep into young Darius’s soul: no one’s coming to save you—you fight, or you fall.
After the summer break, he returned with a new instinct. When he spotted one of the bullies, he struck—spinning his school bag with its wheels straight into the kid’s head. Again. And again. He didn’t stop until other children pulled him away.
The final frame of that memory snaps him back. Sal blinks, hand still on his face, realizing he’s sitting in a clinic, haunted by something that happened over two decades ago.
He mutters to himself, “Phew... I get it now. Even if that fire isn’t in me the way it used to be, I still have to keep moving. This isn’t the end of the world. I’ve still got to get that X-ray... and honestly, I’ll probably rip this damn wrap off my hand sooner than later.”
The dreadful night finally gives way to morning. Sal wakes from a deep, heavy sleep. Light filters through the curtains as he slowly sits up, eyes locking onto his wrapped hand resting on the blanket. He stares at it in silence, then mutters under his breath, voice low and cracked:
“You better heal up quick, my boy… ’Cause I’m taking you with me—healed or broken.”
He exhales sharply, the kind of breath that carries both pain and resolve. Then he throws the sheets off and gets up.
The day unfolds in a haze until a notification lights up his phone. He checks it absentmindedly—until he sees the headline:
“SCW: Taking Hold of the Flame – Entry #20: Sal Darius.”
For a second, time stands still. He rubs his eyes, double-checks the screen… it’s real.
Sal clenches his jaw, feeling the throb of pain in his hand as he grips the phone tighter. He swallows it—just like he always has. No complaints. No fear. Just forward. As soon as Sal sets his phone aside, it buzzes again, vibrating against the table like an unwanted reminder. He glances at it but doesn’t reach. He refuses to let bad news shake his focus before a match.
The screen lights up: Dr. Adam.
Sal’s jaw tightens. Fuck.
He picks it up, hesitates, and finally taps to open the message. A snapshot of his X-ray loads slowly on the screen. He studies it, fingers instinctively zooming in to examine the knuckles—dark shadows, slight swelling, but no fracture lines through the joints. The hand’s battered, yes. But not broken.
The doctor’s message reads: “Mild Boxer’s Fracture. Rest recommended, but no long-term damage if protected. Up to you.”
Sal stares at the screen, then at his hand. The wrap feels tighter now, but his focus is sharper. He locks the phone, sets it down, and whispers, “Good enough.” Because pain doesn’t scare him. Distraction does. And nothing, not even a hairline fracture is pulling him out of this match.
“MOTHERFUCKER! This whole SCW management is rubbing filth on me, making me lose against these nobodies!” he shouted, breathing heavily. He began tearing off his clothes in frustration, stomping through the house in nothing but floral boxers.
“These fuckers! Fuck this clean lifestyle…” he muttered angrily, before heading upstairs.
He climbed the steps and opened the door to the only room on the upper floor. Inside, he approached a shelf and pulled back a white sheet, revealing a small packet hidden beneath. He stared at it—white powder. A ghost from his past. A phase that had once nearly destroyed him. He stood there, breathing harder, locked in a battle with temptation. “LET’S DO IT!” he yelled suddenly, only to throw the packet carelessly back into the sheets. He rubbed his head in frustration, torn between relapse and resolve. Stumbling into the bathroom, he turned on the shower. Steam quickly filled the space like a thick fog. With one hand on the wall, he shut his eyes, letting memories crash down on him.
The pain. The betrayal. The failure.
He opened his eyes, rage boiling over, and slammed his hand against the wall—twice. The second hit was too much. He grabbed his hand with the other, wincing and shouting in pain.
Water continued to pour down over his body as he stood there, screaming—not just from the injury, but from everything building inside him. The pain, the pressure, the past. All of it. Flooding out like the water around him.
He sat down below the shower and cried his eyes out. After he gets down processing the emotions. Sal gets up, he dries himself properly and looks at himself in the breath. Taking a huge breath. He talks to himself ‘maybe pro wrestling is the only thing that has saved me from that party life, I need to be extra committed to myself and this profession… IT'S TIME!’ Sal goes to bed and switches off.
The scene opens in a medical institute where Sal was having a conversation with a problem.
Doc: Soo, how far is your next fight?
Sal: About a week. Do you think I can recover by then?
Doc: Hard to say. Let the X-rays come. May I ask how this happened?
Sal: Well, I just slipped from the stairs and landed right on my hand.
Doc: Smirks... Come on? I mean, okay sure.
Sal: What's the smirk for?
Doc: Well, I do understand that pro wrestlers go through injuries all the time, and it's not an easy job. But to me, this looks a bit more than that.
Sal: More than that? What do you mean?
Doc: See, Sal, I am a professional, and I know the difference between suicidal injuries and match injuries.
Sal: You think I did this (While raising the injured hand) on purpose?
Doc: Well, I have some meetings to attend at the moment. But consider your mental health a bit more seriously. (Sal gets alert after listening to that.) We will WhatsApp you your X-rays, and don’t compete if you’re not okay.
The Freaky Darius was forged in hardship, and he’s convinced that adversity is something to embrace, not escape. He sees himself as a warrior, hardened by life, and views vulnerability as weakness. In his eyes, therapy is for the fragile—his only way forward is to fight. Time, he believes, builds the strength needed to battle inner demons. While this mindset reflects a classic case of toxic masculinity, it’s also the only approach that’s ever seemed to work for him. But Darius, the self-proclaimed King of the World of Hearts, has yet to realize that pro wrestling is just a stage—real life demands more than brute strength. If he doesn’t learn to separate his persona from his personal reality, he may end up fighting the wrong battles.
He places a palm over his face, eyes shut tight, sinking into a heavy cloud of regret, frustration, and confusion. Sal drifts inward, lost in thought, almost slipping into a dreamlike trance.
A vivid memory surfaces—he sees himself as a child, dressed in a school uniform, the heat of summer break just around the corner. A gang of bullies surrounds him, laughing as they smear glue into his hair. He comes home humiliated, the sticky mess clinging to his scalp like a reminder of helplessness. His mother helps clean it, but instead of comfort, she blames him. His father, cold and firm, tells him to fight back. That day, a belief was etched deep into young Darius’s soul: no one’s coming to save you—you fight, or you fall.
After the summer break, he returned with a new instinct. When he spotted one of the bullies, he struck—spinning his school bag with its wheels straight into the kid’s head. Again. And again. He didn’t stop until other children pulled him away.
The final frame of that memory snaps him back. Sal blinks, hand still on his face, realizing he’s sitting in a clinic, haunted by something that happened over two decades ago.
He mutters to himself, “Phew... I get it now. Even if that fire isn’t in me the way it used to be, I still have to keep moving. This isn’t the end of the world. I’ve still got to get that X-ray... and honestly, I’ll probably rip this damn wrap off my hand sooner than later.”
The dreadful night finally gives way to morning. Sal wakes from a deep, heavy sleep. Light filters through the curtains as he slowly sits up, eyes locking onto his wrapped hand resting on the blanket. He stares at it in silence, then mutters under his breath, voice low and cracked:
“You better heal up quick, my boy… ’Cause I’m taking you with me—healed or broken.”
He exhales sharply, the kind of breath that carries both pain and resolve. Then he throws the sheets off and gets up.
The day unfolds in a haze until a notification lights up his phone. He checks it absentmindedly—until he sees the headline:
“SCW: Taking Hold of the Flame – Entry #20: Sal Darius.”
For a second, time stands still. He rubs his eyes, double-checks the screen… it’s real.
Sal clenches his jaw, feeling the throb of pain in his hand as he grips the phone tighter. He swallows it—just like he always has. No complaints. No fear. Just forward. As soon as Sal sets his phone aside, it buzzes again, vibrating against the table like an unwanted reminder. He glances at it but doesn’t reach. He refuses to let bad news shake his focus before a match.
The screen lights up: Dr. Adam.
Sal’s jaw tightens. Fuck.
He picks it up, hesitates, and finally taps to open the message. A snapshot of his X-ray loads slowly on the screen. He studies it, fingers instinctively zooming in to examine the knuckles—dark shadows, slight swelling, but no fracture lines through the joints. The hand’s battered, yes. But not broken.
The doctor’s message reads: “Mild Boxer’s Fracture. Rest recommended, but no long-term damage if protected. Up to you.”
Sal stares at the screen, then at his hand. The wrap feels tighter now, but his focus is sharper. He locks the phone, sets it down, and whispers, “Good enough.” Because pain doesn’t scare him. Distraction does. And nothing, not even a hairline fracture is pulling him out of this match.