"A poser..."

Cyrus' head was hung over his chest, looking at the ground.

"Steven Xavior called me a poser, because I'm the new guy. Steven Xavior insulted me, because he doesn't know me. He doesn't... care... to know me. Steven Xavior insulted Cyrus O'Haire because Cyrus O'Haire is new. I am... different. Not like them." Cyrus spoke slowly. "Steven Xavior insulted me the same way that Andrew Bishop did before he suffered a career ending injury at MY hands."

Cyrus shook his head, never looking at the camera.

"I started this week happy that I was placed in this match. I thought this match was going to be different, like me. I thought Steven Xavior would know... talent... when he saw it..."

Cyrus' heels tap against the ground, nervously.

"Then I realized that Steven Xavior, mentally, was just like the rest of them. He's just like all of them..." Cyrus raises his head, sweat pouring down his face. "Like all of you. Selfish. Self centered. Self indulged. Me me me. All about you. Everyone in MCW is all about themselves. Even Acid… using people for his own devices. Using me to destroy DareDevil. Everyone…”

Cyrus lowers his head again, looking at the ground as his heels keep tap, tap, tapping. He pauses, thinking to himself.

“Steven Xavior thinks I need to make a name for myself here… I don’t need to make a name for myself here. I have a past… I don’t need a future. I don’t plan on having a future, Steven Xavior. I plan on having a present. A now. As long as I keep winning in this round robin tournament, I’ll get my opportunity… I don’t need to be used by Acid or put Andrew Bishop out… forever… but I do it anyways.” Cyrus raises his head again, smiling. “And I do it for fun.”

Cyrus moved to stand up, causing the camera to pan away from him, down a long isle. As the camera rolls further back, church pews are revealed. Cyrus walks from his seat, chest bare, no shirt. Cyrus raises his hands, looking around him while speaking at the camera.

“I don’t need to make a name for myself here, because I’ve tasted fame. I’ve tasted fortune. I’ve tasted the drugged up, numb life that the judge deemed suitable for my punishment – I don’t need all of that. Because I have this. I have the Cathedral. I have… memories. I have everything I have ever wanted, right here.” He drops his hands, turning to the camera. “Except competition. That’s why I came to MCW. That’s why I am here. I am not a ‘poser’, Steven Xavior. I am not a wrestling smark. This is no gimmick. This is who I am. I thought I explained this well enough before my match with Andrew Bishop, but it must be YOU who is not doing their research.”

Cyrus sighed, walking towards the camera. His shorts brushed against one of the pews, catching and ripping. Cyrus didn’t seem to notice.

“This is where I’m comfortable. Here, in the Devious Cathedral, where I can sit and think… about anything. About everything. About our match… about the things you said.

“About how I gave you far too much credit than you deserved.”

Cyrus shook his head.

“Your wrestling skills hold true, but your mentality skews at the first site of competition.”

Walking up the camera, Cyrus shakes his head.

“I thought you different, Steven Xavior. I thought you would be a competitor.” Sighing, again. “I thought you could make me feel… anything… again.”

Cyrus ran his hands through his hair, then whipped the sweat off of them to the floor.

“Who is the one playing mind games now?”