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Okay guys, question time. What do you want to be when you grow up?

A DOCTOR!

A POLICE OFFICER!

A SPACE MAN!

DONALD TRUMP!

Mister Ramsay, what are you still doing here?

Tryna’ sell crack to nine year olds. What do you think people go to school for?

This..is a primary school.

And your point is?

You’re twenty seven.

AND HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO ACQUIRE THAT TYPE OF INFORMATION,  MIGHT I ASK?

It was written in crayons on the "CV" that you handed me at the beginning of this class.

…Look, Mrs. Smilf. I may look old but I still possess a craving for education that’s just as big as these youngsters’, if not bigger. I’m being granted a second opportunity at making something of myself on an intellectual scale; which I’m very grateful for, considering how I squandered my first when I showed my kindergarten’s teacher my di—

ENOUGH! Unless you want me to call the principle, I suggest you leave right now.

Please, listen to her Uncle Ramsay. You’re embarrassing me…

What the hell are YOU doing here?

You drove me here.

That’s clearly a lie. If you were in a car with me, we’d both be drooling over the leather of some hospital bed. And that, your honor, is why—

I’M A FUCKING TEACHER!

Easy there, Helen Mirren! Kids are watching.

You know what? Screw this, I don’t get paid enough to handle these satan spawns as it is. I’m out of here. The floor’s all yours, Mister Ramsay.

So, uh…You there! You want to be a doctor, right?

Ye..yes.

Are you willing to do anything to become a doctor?

I guess.

Are you willing to sacrifice time away from your family to tend to a stranger’s well being? Are you capable of knowing how fast your kids will someday grow and how you probably won’t be there to see every step of it unfold?

…

Aiming for the stars is not that difficult, fulfilling the promise of reaching them through all of its collateral circumstances is. You can WANT to be a doctor one day, or an astronaut, or a police officer; but are you willing to go to distance and translate that desire to reality, is the mandatory question to ask. I’ve encountered my fair share of hopefuls and star-gazers in my time, some of whom I genuinely thought would attain whatever goals they’d set for themselves.

Why did you think that, Mister Ramsay?

Good question young one, very good question. You see, there comes a time where the illusion of one’s creative imagination amounts to a level of false credibility so high, even the most conscientious of folks buy into the hype; albeit momentarily. For instance, I wrestle for a living and I’ve been doing it in the reigns of EAW for the last six months—

My favorite wrestler is Mr. DEDEDE!

Mine is Mr. ShutTheFrickUpIAmStillTalking. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve been running the proverbial roughshod over everyone and everything inhabiting the land of elite for half a year now. My efforts eventually came to fruition as I now hold one of its prominent accolades in the Pure Championship. Do you know how to spell “Pure”, Stan?

Pee..ey…

 Yeah, that’s what I thought. Prior to said achievement however, I was a dreamer just like all of you. I WANTED to be someone influential, someone of an impactful presence in any field he graces foot; just like all of you. However, that’s where the line of similarities ends; because unlike all of you, I didn’t settle for the vocal expression of my desire. I stayed true to it until the end, working on making that dream of mine factual reality.

But, Mister Ramsay, we’re still little. We still play with toys and leave doodoo scattered all over our bed at night.

That right there is a poorly made-up but sadly very common premise, one which lures small-minded people like you young one into a comfort zone that should not exist in the first place. Simply put, it’s an excuse. I learned that the hard way when I was your age. The only toys I found playable at the time were the hearts and minds of everyone else. And the doodoo? Well, let’s just say I’m glad my mom’s husband doesn’t recognize my face anymore, his dog too. I had to hustle through the crepuscule of the streets for most of my “upbringing”, keeping an ear to the ground and a pair of knuckles on the ready. All of that propelled me into beholding the art of professional wrestling in a manner nearly impossible for any newbie of my experience to grasp. It also aided me, in time of despair, to rekindle the bolt of lightning that I initially rode straight through the stratosphere of Elite Answers Wrestling. Consequently, I stand before you a champion and most importantly, a man who successfully achieved his purpose. And not to solidify any doubt of this being merely a self-glorifying monologue, but instead of cutting off the cord there, I chose to pass on the tale for other hopefuls to HOPEFULLY inherit. I decided that as champion, I’d take on any dreamer wishing to repeat the Cinderella story of yours truly in his own words and a lot of them did step up to the plate. From a promising upstart to a self-professed queen of the style that I happen to carry the sacred crown of, challenges of all shapes and kinds have and are still lining up on a weekly basis; and the more I surmount, the bigger everyone’s appetite grows for the dethroning of Carson Ramsay. Take this Sunday’s contender for instance; can anyone guess who will it be? Here’s a hint, he’s a blonde child of Jesus who’s world-renowned for possessing a “demonic” bloodline.

…Justin Bieber?

Close. Unfortunately though, he’s not that skinny.

Laa-Laa the Teletubby?

Definitely. I’m definitely wrestling a Teletubby on live television.

Mr. DEDEDE?

I will punch your pet.

Donald Trump?

VERY CLOSE, YOUNG DENIZ! But still not close enough. To spare you the struggle of further guessing it through, it’s none other than Lucas Johnson. Now, who is this—wait, shit. Hold on…

Who is this Lucas Johnson man, Mister Ramsay?

NO IDEA, YOUNG ONE! Nah, seriously, I’ve got none. I googled him, heck, I even binged him and I still drew blank. Aside from a couple of amateur wrestling accomplishments that conveniently follow the path of a certain bald-headed Olympic gold medalist and a nice move pulled off the ladder last week, he’s got nothing worth discussing. On second thought, I digress; he’s kind of up to a couple of interesting things. First and foremost, let’s talk about his display of respect towards me. While it’s much appreciated, I’m saddened to toll in the news that I’m not overly keen on believing it’s that genuine. Should I be blamed? The last two challengers before Lucas spewed the same lines, eulogizing my job as Pure Champion to the point of me almost growing red-cheeked then POOF! All of the extolment perished and in its place laid their true colors; painted in envy, greed and everything in between. They began ripping my name to shreds, then divesting me of everything that I’ve contributed with to amend the division and what may or may not flaw it as subsequent to JD Damon’s stint. So excuse me if I don’t intend on repaying you with respect carols of my own, Lucas; because the way I see it, you’re no different than the individuals that came before you or the ones who’ll come after. You share the common objective of everyone taking me up on the Pure Open offer, and that’s vying for my title; which is cool, considering that’s what a championship contender usually opts to feel. But, sugarcoating it won’t compel me to see it any other way, nor will it give you some sort of a special treatment come our match on Voltage. Faces may change and aspirations may vary but the end result remains the sole constant of this equation, Lucas. And you should have a clear thought of what I’m rambling about by now. After all, you watched both of my last two matches as part of the Open Challenge and you’ve seen the lengths both Goto and Nobi took me to. Howbeit at the end of the day, both of those story-telling bouts were treated to the same epilogue; me prevailing against all odds. You know what really warms my heart though, ki—kids?!

You know what warms my heart, Lucas? It’s the fact that you gather all of these pitiful circumstances, from your cancer-battling aunt to how you’re gonna’ limp your way down the aisle with a couple of broken ribs on Sunday; just so you can paint yourself a hero in the eyes of those who’d care to consider you one. That’s your essential problem, young Johnson ; you seek the approval of others and you’re willing to pander to anything that would please them in the process. That’s you why you didn’t emerge as one of two new entrants in the Grand Rampage last week and that’s why you’re not emerging champion this week. The moment that you refrain from entrusting people with your fate instead of your own self is the moment that will bring you solace and perhaps a deserved whiff of hope at a better use of breath. Unfortunately, that moment won’t be transpiring at my expense. Call it selfishness incarnated, I’d rather see it for its true form; an ascent, MY ascent to greatness. It may be stopping for you this weekend, but it will only rage on from there. Your carcass is merely filling a step worth of space on Voltage Lucas, the sooner you come to grips with that, the higher your chances at solace.

The video camera is recording, yet the scene is death black. Nothing can be seen, although faint noises can be heard. To the right side of the landscape, a candle lights. The flame bickers and flicks in the room, it reveals a cabinet, which it is sat atop of, the cabinet has a dark brown coating, and nothing much stands out from the shape of it. The candle is quickly blown away, wax halted before it can melt into the candle holder, smoke fluttering in the air. An oil lantern is lit now, its possessor and proprietor cannot be made out, due to the lighting of the room, the lantern doesn't do much for the setting, as a matter of fact it barely lights up more than the last candle did. A disappointed, borderline frustrated sigh can be heard from the bearer of the lantern, before the light diminishes. Seconds pass, maybe twenty of them, before a light flickers at the top of the scene, revealing an old room. The floor is concrete, certain stains can be made out from the dirty white shade, a red puddle, a blue one, perhaps the room was home to a painter. The concrete had dents and cracks within it, so it may have been a decade since it was laid to be a floor. A table leg interrupts the scene, it is wooden, and has lines and shavings to it, a pattern if you would like to call it that. Of course, three more, similar legs join the scene, to make a table with four legs. These rise up a metre or so, before stopping, and possessing a table upon their pinnacle. The table is circular, a cage being held on the brow of it. The cage is bamboo, and matches the table, although this cage is a few touches lighter. It becomes clear that this cage is a birdcage; Mostly due to the fact it was tiny. The other reason was that inside the cage was a bird, it was black, coal black, very distinct to the starting of our scene. The bird was a Crow, or a Raven, this could be conjectured from it's shrilling, croaking call. It's wings flapped helplessly within its holding cage. Next to said cage, was of course our hero, Sheridan Müller. The personification of German Efficiency, the true meaning of perfectionist, our protagonist, the saviour of the Vixens Division as we know it. Sheridan is attired in her usual clothing, a white shirt and a black, fitted biker leather jacket ascends her body. Dark blue jeans make up her bottom half wear, with trainers, from what it looks like Nike's, make up her footwear. The blonde, as seemingly always these days, had her aesthetically pleasing blonde hair in a French plaid, the strands would stay clear of her facial, opting to instead flow backwards, into a cascade before the majority of her hair would tightly grip into one another, resulting in the plaid addressing upon her shoulder. Eyes were blue, lips were red. Upon the table were some steel aviators, much akin to ones you would see in an action movie, you know the ones, where the hero is a biker, or a pilot, and they'd smoke a cigar whilst wearing aviators? Sheridan Müller of course was the coolest chick in EAW, so she always had a flawless look to match her incredibly attractive face. What was Sheridan Müller doing with a bird, was the current question most fans watching the EAW Network would be wondering. Sheridan didn't like birds, she wasn't like the current Specialists Champion, Cailin Dillon, neither were she even close to Cailin's lapdogs, Cloud Matsuda and Haruna GenericJapaneseName, no, Sheridan wasn't known to have an affiliation with either kind of birds, be it the sluts in Elite Answers Wrestling, or the one sat upon the wooden table at her side. Sheridan would have a faint smile on her face, a rare sight. She withdrew a bottle, with the reading of 'Löwenbräu' upon the front. Whilst Jagermeister was arguably German'y most well known export, Sheridan Müller was not a fucking maniac. No. Sheridan Müller was a professional, she drank pure, lovely Munich beer, she much preferred it to the poison that was gulped down in America, as a matter of fact, Sheridan spent a fair bit of her wage vying for Löwenbräu to personally deliver their beverages to her doorstep. The beer was open, yet the bottle was filled to the brim with liquid. What was the game here. Sheridan would proceed to let the open end of the bottle slip between her red painted lips, allowing her hand to jolt and fingers to curl around the glass, emptying some of the liquid into her throat. She would continue doing so for maybe six or seven seconds, scarifying a third of the bottle with her drink. After doing so, the bottle would turn its attention to the Raven in the bamboo cage, lathers of the liquid would pour onto the cage, coating the bamboo and startling the Raven within the cage; Which in process would make it cry out and make quite the racket. Sheridan had of course, taken the back route in doing so. She was a perfectionist, she wouldn't dare obstruct the views gander of the rare, black bird. This was a treat for the viewers at home. Beer was being shared with a Raven, the only down side to this spectacle was the Raven didn't seem too pleased with the Löwenbräu that our blonde haired German was gracefully and selflessly sharing. The bottle drew to being empty, no more delicious, orangey liquid gushed from the 'o' shaped exit of the bottle. Such news drew a scowl to Sheridan's lips. From the pocket of her biker jacket, Sheridan withdrew a lighter, and her motives immediately become known. Surely she wouldn't, the German wasn't that edgy, was she? German alcohol was the perfect fuel, German efficiency was the quintessential consummate for this occasion. The bottle fell to the floor, smashing over the concrete, a few droplets of beer which had not managed to flow from the glass container would douse the floor, however not making a sufficient mess. It was possible that the Raven within the cage had caught on to Sheridan's plan, for it was making loud shrieks and caws. Of course, these would only be met with silence from our protagonist. A hand moved forward, and the lighter was sparked up. Within seconds the bamboo cage had caught fire. The body within the room had withdrew itself with scarcely any steps. Our new friend, the Raven, had been engulfed in the flames, the body of the bird immersing and overwhelming with red, yellow and orange sparks and plasma. The cries and pleas of the Raven were drowned out by the cracking of the flames. Such shrills gradually decreasing in clamour, drawing to a stop. The fire would continue to spread, the table ignited with conflagration, the scene would draw to a conclusion. The Raven was truly dead. 

'' It would appear that the local lesbians of Elite Answers Wrestling have caught an infatuation with me. Of course I am referring to Haruna and Cloud. I cannot blame them. I am one of the first to recognize that I am indeed the loveliest, most attractive Vixen in the locker room at this date. Not only that, but I am also the most talented. Maybe Cloud Matsuda came to the conclusion that I will win the Vixens Cup, either eliminating herself or Haruna in the process. When I do win, I can see her ditching Cailin and trying to bed me. The poor thing, sleeping your way to the top is a thing of the past, Cloud. You come out with these quotes and sentences about yourself being you know, hot shit? But you represent the sluts and no shows of this division. It's a pity. You're not half bad in the ring, not better than myself of course, because, as you know, German efficiency, but you could get close in a few years. If only you had a realistic approach to wrestling. You try to degrade me in your little video thing, ja? You think that because you've slept with a champion that you can start running your mouth, hm. I'll show you. Look, let's just come to a abrupt ending to your little crush on me. I will beat Raven, she is already dead and long gone from Elite Answers Wrestling in my opinion, and then I will beat you, that is if you can get past Haruna first. Then I will go on to win the Vixens Cup. It's inevitable, for German efficiency beats all. Listen, Cloud. When I do win, we will need to strip you. No, I don't mean of your clothes, as much as your loins are getting wet at the thought, I mean of your lifestyle. This idea, this perception that you're better than me. It needs to stop, it needs to end. I can end it for you. I will happily do so. You're an idealist, maybe mother and daddy Matsuda didn't raise you correctly. The world is not your oyster, you can't sleep with anybody you want, spouting nice words and rainbows doesn't mean you can overcome anything you wish to. You get upset when I call you the second Cailin? That is what you are, in my eyes. You're exactly like her, minus her plastic breasts, her dumb Texan accent and her wrestling ability. She is a little better than you, not by a lot, but she has the edge on you. I don't know why you wish to continue aligning yourself with her, as if I saw you both tag teaming Cailin would be the star. I see right through you. Your idealism is plastic. You try to use your Japanese words and your little attitude to try scare me off. It will not suffice, it will not work. We have met in the ring once, you are right. I am not afraid to admit you beat me. But you are a dirty cheater, a fraudster, you scammed me, the locker room, and the audience of a good match just to get a sticker on your book. Roll ups will not have a place in my locker room, no no. For roll ups are for idealists. Underdogs, I will not tolerate such disgusting, vulgar behaviour. I understand you are raised in a culture where being a coward is a thing, ja. You were raised with your little rice and your backpack and your kawaii and your chan desu shit. But we are in the grown up world now, Cloud. We are in the wrestling world. What you call cute, I call ugly. You think you are good in the ring? You are below average, it is why you haven't achieved anything note worthy to date and it is why I will beat you in the Vixens cup. Not only that, but it is because I am better than you. My arsenal is well prepared, yours is missing three quarters of its stock. I have stamina, you have sucking, or should I say licking, up skills. I thrive on performance, my moves are hard hitting and I am the personification of efficiency. German Efficiency. What are you? What do you thrive off of, Cailin? That is why you will never be a serious contender in the division, you side yourself and call yourself the team mate of scum. Cailin is the enemy, Cloud. She is the one who has the rest of the division believing that they don't have to train every day, that they don't have to put on good matches. This motivational bullshit and this roll up, disqualification interference shit is her fault. As long as money is in her hand, she can just wave her title around, spread the never give up motivational attitude and be the trickster that leads this division into a sink-hole. If you are on that team, if you have that idealist view, then I, Sheridan Müller, will happily out wrestle you, out submit you, and beat you. ''

'' I'm going to move on to Cloud's ex, Cailin's ex, whatever. Haruna Sakazakikazasazi. Your name is complicated. It bores me. I will call you Haruna from now on. Seem as you and the rest of the division don't have the decency to pronounce my second name correctly. It is Müller, not Muller. Haruna, I had to waste my time finding an Asian American to come to my apartment and attempt to de-riddle your lack of lexical knowledge of the English language. I am a German, I was raised in Germany, speaking the German tongue, yet I can still identify that your English is bad. Tut tut. Not as bad as your belief that you can beat me, or your little underdog shit you've got going on there, but I can pay for you lessons if you would like. You upset me. You miss connections in your sentences, you don't use your nouns and your verbs in the right places. Did you try bring your underdog attitude into your promos? It's not good. Basically, what I got from your shit rambling, is that you're an underdog, but then suddenly not an underdog, and that I'm good in the ring, but then you're better. My jaw hurts from saying this, but allow me to take pleasure in reminding you that I am better than you. I am superior, please stop taking my words and bouncing them, you're a Haruna, not a mirror. Superior is my word. I say that. Don't copy me. I'm not going to address the part where you suck up to me much like you suck up to Cailin or Cloud, for I know I'm fucking excellence. I wake up, go downstairs, and make myself a fresh cup of brilliance. I go to the gym, I train, adrenaline fuels my body. What do I do after the gym? What do I do with myself after training, I have some salad with a side of perfection. I am Sheridan, fucking, Müller. You do not have to tell me I am good. You do not have to breathe the words German Efficiency. You speak about under-estimating people, yet I don't under estimate you. I know you have the possibility of beating Cloud, but you do not have a chance in hell in beating me. Let me make this clear, the Vixens division I am sure was hell bent and happy as cocaine in having these underdogs roam the lands, picking up upset victories, etc etc. Not under my watch. If you believe that you have a smudge of a chance of passing me, pinning my shoulders to the match, I will have to ask you to think again, for that is delusional. Look at you, with your underdog tongue, and your cotton candy chocolate spread child talk. All you have to do is believe right? Are you Cailin 3.0? Why the fuck does this whole division love to talk absolute garbage. Why is idealism a thing in this locker room? It frustrates me. It, upsets, me. I will cleanse this company of idealists. You don't achieve anything by daydreaming. Haruna, I'm not going to pretend I have the belief that I can beat you. I have the move-set and the talent and the efficiency to send you back to Japan in a wheelchair. I can out maneuver you at every turn. You think that being an underdog can beat me? You think that if the crowd chant your name hard enough you have the chance of surpassing me. I'm done speaking to you. I have other people to address. Your façade has gone on long enough, words evidently won't get into your mind so I hope that a kick to the skull and a Sherplex to defeat will. ''

'' I am going to acknowledge somebody. Oh wait, let me just get a drink real quick. '' Sheridan would speak, before retrieving a plastic bottle, with a light blue logo upon it. The plastic would be transparent, and water could be seen exiting through the top of the bottle and into Sheridan's lips. '' Okay, okay. I am going to reach out to some of the women of this division I have not had the chance to, yet. I figure that when I win the Vixens Cup, I will have to know my associates and my fellow Vixens a little better. So. Erica Ford. Firstly. I've shared a ring with you twice, correct? Once we were upon a team, and another time we were opponents. Surprise, surprise, I won. Both times. Even though the whole team won, I extra won because I did the most work. The other time, I may not have pinned you, but I got a win and you got a loss. Look, I'm not going to pull a Cameron Ella Ava and pretend that past results mean anything significant, but they do mean something. See, efficiency is defined by repetition, one prime aspect of efficiency is that you can do something, and then do it again, and again, and get the same result. That is me, Sheridan Müller, but you already knew that didn't you. I am German Efficiency, the personification of it, as a matter of fact. I am sure you've got onto your laptop when you should be training and looked me up. I'm fairly good. I have the look as well as the talent. I would say I have the will power and the spirit too, but I don't. I'm just superior. German Efficiency has never failed me, Erica. I don't care how long you've been here, I will beat you. The fact is, the only chance I will have to face you is within the final, yet I predict you won't make it that far. For you are one of the cancers I like to talk about. You are one of the little germs which spread your lack of motivation and talent to other members of the roster, other members of the division. Don't mis-read what I am saying, don't accidental interpret it for something it is not. I think that you can beat Veena Adams, we both did when we teamed together, and hey, it you do make it to the final I will have no problem in handing you your own ass on a plate. I don't want you to get your little idealist hopes up, no? You're okay. But you're simply not efficient enough to seriously contend with me. If by some freak accident you whirl up in the final, knock knock, German Efficiency mother fucker, I will be there. I will win. I will better you for I am superior. You might as well book a ticket back to the hole you seemed to have crept out of around the time this Vixens Cup was announced. Before as I have said a fair few times now. I am Sheridan fucking Müller, my middle name isn't actually fucking that would just be horrible. You have noticed I assume that some of the Vixens around here have really stupid fucking names, right Erica? Right? Who calls their child, Veena. Silly names Erica. Anyway as I was saying, I don't have the energy to talk in length about you, for you are nothing special, and you will put in a sub-par performance like you did when I teamed with you and like you did when I was your opponent. I'm just shaking a little realism into the Vixens Cup. The majority of these bitches generally have the belief that they can defeat German Efficiency. The future is German, ladies. The future will be efficient, and perfect, and none of you will even place a dent within the metal, steel and titanium structure that is German Efficiency. Lastly, before I head off because I have to train for Raven, even though I'm quite sure her funeral has probably passed by this date, I have to address somebody called Azumi Goto? According to the officials backstage at EAW I've been in multiple matches with this woman. I should maybe pay more attention for I believe I've never even met her. Azumi who? I saw your promo. Don't mention my name every a fucking gen you little bitch. I don't care if you've unravelled your tongue and given me a good licking, you do not have the privilege to mention my name. You can go in the same bin as Haruna and Cloud now. Cailin 4.0. Maybe if you spent more time applying your craft instead of ass-licking one another you could have a chance of winning the Vixens Cup. But you don't. Because of two words, and those are German, and efficiency. ''

Soft country guitar strumming, along with the mysterious lonely wailing of an echoed note fill the ambience of the scene. We find Calvin Lewis, standing in the middle of a long and lonely highway, stretching far out into the distance. The road disappears over the horizon eventually. With the sun beating down on his back, the Epitome of Excellence is the only soul seen along the road. He smiles, shielding his eyes from the sun a little and opens his mouth to speak in a relaxed, calm voice - contrasting his usual wild nature.

"It is a long road to perfection." He begins, pausing to let his voice sink in as it cuts through the quiet background music. "But it is a road that I walk alone."

He begins walking along the highway, slowly.

He stops walking and the camera closes in on him.

"However, there are two things that people still don't know about Calvin Lewis." 

Lewis holds up one finger. "First... I make a damned good orange. I am the rare breed of people on this earth that can be oranges, bananas, apples, cherries, tangelos and any other fruit I desire - simply because I am that damned good. Nobody else in this business can match Calvin Lewis as the dual-sport athlete. I proved that to Troy Ace and I will prove it again to Vance Tybull."

He holds up a second finger. "Secondly... I don't forget lessons that I have learnt. Losing to GI Styles was a humbling experience. It fuelled my fire, refocused me. I don't plan on losing again, definitely not while I am building momentum on the Road to Perfection. Tybull had better be prepared for that."

He continues walking again, the camera moving behind him to capture the length of his journey ahead. No end destination is in sight, the long road seeming to stretch on to eternity. When the shot moves around once more to focus on his face, the background of the shot shows where he had come from. Walking away from a golden hazed Mexican village, a signpost reading 'El New Breedo' hangs, slowly getting smaller and smaller as Calvin Lewis moves on. Now that the sun is not quite so bright in his eyes, Calvin's usual ambivalent look of determination and wild unhinged unpredictability fills his face.

His eyes remain trained on the road in front of him as he passes a single signpost that reads National Elite City: 5 miles. The fire returns to his eyes.

His shoulders move in a bit of a confident swagger as he continues, the smile returning to his face as he walks on along the road.

Once more, Calvin stops for a moment. His smile fades from his face, his eyes returning to the wild-man look that we saw last week during his flashes of uncontrollable rage. The darker side of perfection threatens to once more rear its ugly head.

He takes a single breath, closing his eyes and holding it before exhaling. When he breathes out, his face seems a little more relaxed; the darker side of him swallowed back down once more.

He continues walking, silently for a while before turning his attention back to the camera.

the Epitome of Excellence stops, running a hand slowly through his hair before smiling at the camera.