A darkened room. That’s what the scene opens up into. A light sways back and forth, metronomesque. A long moment of silence passes before Sean Parker walks into view of the camera. By his waist hangs a katana, sheathed in its scabbard or saya.

His glistening, emerald green eyes veer down to the weapon at his side and his hand affectionately travels up and down it. The gift passed down to him by Sensei Kiriyama for earning his third Dan in Shotokan. The last of the Kiriyama family heirlooms. Beautiful Masamune.

Sean’s fingers coil around the saya. His thumb pushes the guard, releasing Masamune from the koiguchi, the saya’s mouth.

He crouches down, resting Masamune across his knees, beckoning the camera closer with an ominously-inviting curl of his index finger.

(Sean): You know, for the last few years I’ve spent so much time and energy pushing through barriers and boundaries that I thought were holding me back, breaking through the falsehoods that I thought defined me. No one’s ever hesitated to want their pound of flesh from Sean Parker. It's a wonder I’m not just a skeleton by now.

A sardonic, subtle smirk draws at the corner of Sean’s mouth as his eyes drift from the camera down to Masamune. The swaying light catches the glint on the blade’s razor sharp edge.

(Sean): And then there’s the ones I placed on my own head. The self-inflicted verbal gunshot wounds to the temple.

“It’s too much, Sean, get out while you still can.”

“You can’t handle the pressure anymore.”

“It’s not worth it anymore.”

A gust of wind cuts through the room, causing the swaying light to flicker in rhythm with Sean’s words. Shadows stretch and retract across his face as he continues to speak.

(Sean): Maybe that’s why every time I think I’ve climbed to the top of the ladder, I’ve lost my balance just when I thought I’d reached the top rung and fallen back down again. Because every time I reached my hand up to grab that elusive top rung… all those voices echoed in my head at the same time.

Another pause, this one more deliberate, as if Sean is giving his words time to breathe. His thumb taps lightly against the tsuba—the guard of Masamune—as though marking time, synchronising his thoughts with the sway of the light.

(Sean): I still can’t class myself as a success in this sport until I’ve climbed to the top of the ladder and called myself a World Champion. And I can’t help but paint a picture in my head of what life would be like as a World Champion. To finally have the respect of my peers. To be known as more than just the guy who almost made it to the top.

Sean's voice hardens with an edge that’s almost as sharp as the steel in his hands. His breath fogs slightly in the cool air, matching the atmosphere of calculated calm that now surrounds him.

The camera slowly zooms in on the intricate carvings along Masamune’s hilt, each detail a testament to its centuries-old craftsmanship.

Sean’s fingers caress the blade, careful, reverent. The weapon reflects the light like a mirror, the gleam in his emerald green eyes matching the blade’s intensity.

(Sean): But when that chance finally came, when it really mattered, when it was finally time for me to put the exclamation mark down and press my foot on the throat of professional wrestling and place myself alongside the names in the upper echelons… I was the one that choked. I couldn’t add color inside the lines of that picture in my head.

There’s no point in hiding it from though, it’s out there for the entire world to see.

Every time I close my eyes I see my past failure. A failure that means that picture in my head remains unfinished, black and white. Colorless. But no more, because I’ve burned all the epitaphs. All the obituaries that buried me far too soon. Even the ones I wrote for myself.

Every.

Single.

One.

That final word drops like a stone into a still pond, sending ripples through the calm. A small clatter echoes in the room as Sean returns Masamune to his lap, his voice dipping into a hushed tone, one meant that can be felt as well as heard.

(Sean): Those scars have now formed bullet shells and I’m ready to fire back. That means you, Stuart.

The light sways again, catching the sheen on his brow as Sean’s intensity deepens.

(Sean): I’m done letting the mistakes of my past write my future. The sands of time I thought were once pouring against me have been heated, melted down, reshaped and molded into something that can no longer be shattered. My resolve.

The camera pans down, showing Masamune’s blade in its full length. Sean slowly runs his fingers along the cold, sharp steel.

(Sean): This is my motivation now. See, I’m through with playing the supporting role that Destiny has assigned me.

I’m done playing it safe.

Done with second place.

Done with settling for the consolation prize.

Done with the You’ll-Get-‘Em-Next-Time’s, the sad head-tilts and sympathetic back-pats.

Sean takes a step forward. His footsteps are slow. The camera follows, capturing the subtle clench of his jaw.

(Sean): Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the sheer soul-crushing heartache of trudging back up the ramp and turning my head to watch someone else lift a World Championship above their head, it’s this…. I’d rather endure that same sheer soul-crushing heartache a thousand times over… I’d rather relive every demoralizing defeat every f***ing day for the rest of my life than sit back and watch from the sidelines and wonder what if.

Sean’s voice drops to a low growl. The camera cuts briefly to his hand, flexing and tightening around the hilt of Masamune.

(Sean): That’s why when it comes to Road to Ruin at, I can’t lose. I just can’t.

I’ve stared into the Void a thousand times. And there is not one future I’ve seen that doesn’t end with my elbow connecting with the jaw of either Hans or Stu-Price and me watching their eyes roll into the back of their head as their body goes limp.

The camera pulls back as Sean stands straighter. Masamune glistens in the dim light, the blade now angled slightly upward. He takes a slow breath and releases an even slower, drawn out exhalation through his nose.

(Sean): This though? It’s different, Stuart. See, I’ve finally figured it out. Figured you out. And it took staring into the deepest trench of my own psyche, my own soul to see it. You’re talented. Stuart, no one can deny that.

Sean’s lips curve into a small, almost cruel smile as he paces slowly, the camera following his every move. The tone in his voice then shifts, carrying a razor-thin edge of sly derision.

(Sean): But, like a great many things, Stu, you’re so far from the truth, it’s nothing but a gleaming glint on the horizon, forever out of your reach.

See, you’re so naive in thinking that I’ve fallen prey to some inner darkness, that I’ve succumbed to the dark side. So naive to think that this thing between us has become personal, that you’ve overlooked the one thing this has only ever been about. The HWA World Championship.

The camera cuts to a close-up of Masamune again, held firm in Sean’s hand before he stops pacing, turning back toward the camera.

(Sean): I haven’t been angling for that title since Ring Master, no. My obsession with the HWA World Championship charts back further than when you dirtied her with your hands.

You are right about one thing though; it is my championship, Stu. It’s always been my championship. From the moment that the name Parker graced an HWA ring twenty years ago, from the first time I watched Butch Parker lift that beautiful belt above his head at Fatality 2004, it was destined to be mine. My birthright.

Sean’s voice softens slightly, a hint of nostalgia creeping in as he recalls the memory of his Uncle Butch, holding the championship for the first time. The camera lingers on his face before panning out. Sean holds out his hands in a cradling motion in front of him.

From the moment he brought that title home and laid it in my lap, even as an awe-inspired seven-year old looking at his reflection in the gold plating, I knew it was going to be mine.

(Sean): But you? You’re simply a custodian, a caretaker if you will, keeping watch over a title that you’re not fit to hold. When wrestling historians regale the masses when they talk about the great champions of HWA, about groundbreaking warriors who stood the test of time, they’ll speak of names like Buff Bridges…. Michael Dredge… Talon Wilkinson… Hans von Richtoven… Ronnie McNeil… Butch Parker… but they won’t speak of Stu-E Price. Your brief, unassuming tenure atop the pyramid in HWA will be mentioned alongside the Bryan Deas’s, Embalmers and X-Treme Jays of the HWA record books.

Unfortunately though, you and Hans are going to be facing someone who would eat broken glass, who would crawl through a river of shit to just have even a one-in-thousand chance to pin either of your shoulders to the mat… because I know I am not just on your level… I’m beyond it!

And when we get to the Spectrum Centre, I cannot wait to witness your downfall and the devolution of your psyche, Stu, I really can’t.
You actually remind me a lot of an old Japanese proverb Sensei used to tell me… Subete no hito ni wa mittsu no kokoro ga arimasu. Hitotsu wa seken ni miseru itsuwari no kokoro ga kuchi ni ari, hitotsu wa yūjin-tachi no tame ni mune ni ari, soshite mō hitotsu wa dare ni mo mitsukaranai yō ni fukaku umerareta himitsu no kokoro desu. Sore koso ga, ikinuku tame ni kakushite okana kereba naranai shin no kokoro na no desu.

Translated, that means every man has three hearts. A false one in his mouth for the world to know. One in his chest just for his friends. And a secret one, buried deep where no one can find it. That’s the true heart a man must keep hidden if he wants to survive.

See the thing is, Stu. You’re a good wrestler but you’re not great. You once mocked the HWA Academy for being nothing more than a production line for cookie cutter wrestlers when, in reality, you’re nothing more than a default CAW in any wrestling video game.

You’re a dime-a-dozen fluke that managed to be in the right place at the right time. And I see right through you, Stuart.

I can see that false heart in your mouth, pulsating away. Each time you talk, it beats faster, the strain on it increasing with every word you speak. And I wonder to myself… what would happen to that heart if I took beautiful Masamune and buried the tip of her blade straight into it? What falsehoods would spill out and turn into your own home truths you’d rather not face up to?

And that second heart? I’m sure that’s the one you reserve for Laney… What would happen to it now your true self was revealed? Could it cope with you being exposed for who you really are? Or would it persevere? In all honesty, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not interested in that particular heart.

No. It’s the third one that has my attention. That’s the one I want. That one you have buried deep within yourself, so far down within the depths of your soul you think no one can find it. The one you don’t want anyone to find. I wonder how deep I’d have to cut my blade into you to find it. How many Masamune Decapitations would I have to hit you with before I get to just who Stuart Price really is? I won’t lie, I’m keen to find out. Are you ready for that, Stuart?

The flickering light above Sean grows slower, steadier. He shifts his grip on Masamune as a cold breeze filters through the darkened room, lifting the edges of his hair.

(Sean): Ready for the inevitable? Because one way or another, come hell or high water, I will become the HWA World Champion.

The camera pulls closer, framing Sean in a tight shot, his emerald eyes flashing with a cold intensity. The light catches the hilt of Masamune, giving it an almost ethereal glow.

(Sean): I’m prepared to bet the house on myself. Only this house is different. It’s the house I’ve built from scratch. It’s the House of the Assassin.

A creak echoes through the room as Sean rises slowly, Masamune now fully unsheathed, the blade gleaming in the dim light like a predator’s grin. He holds it loosely, effortlessly, but the power behind the movement is unmistakable.

(Sean): And in the House of the Assassin, you may win the odd battle but you’ll never win the war. In the House of the Assassin, you lose a piece of yourself no victory will ever replace. Only by standing within the four walls of this House will you and Hans realize your true worth.

With a swift motion, Sean swings Masamune through the air, the blade slicing through the silence, the sound a clean whistle. The camera pans to follow the blade’s arc, before settling back on Sean’s unwavering expression.

(Sean): You may think you’re flying high at the moment, Stuart. But you’re flying unknowingly into uncharted territory at Road to Ruin. And at these heights, only I can thrive. But by all means though, follow me, Stuart. Don’t just follow me into the clouds, break through them.

The room seems to shrink as Sean steps forward, the camera drawing nearer. The light above him continues to swing ever slower. His voice grows quieter, sharper. Sean’s eyes darken; the emerald green hue disappearing along with it. Masamune’s blade catches the light, a gleaming crescent in the dim room. He runs his thumb along the edge, the motion slow, deliberate.

(Sean): A word of caution though, you won’t like what you find because whilst you’re flying too close to the sun, blinded by its light, I’m harnessing it because I was meantto fly, Stuart, destined to soar. Destined to watch you crash and burn back to earth. Back to reality.

The camera zooms in on Sean’s face as his voice deepens. He lifts Masamune higher, holding it steady. His breath comes slower, measured.

(Sean): I am Sora no Ansatsusha. The Sky Assassin. When I take flight, bad things happen to those below. Nobody can do what I can do, because nobody’s lungs can withstand the heights I can go to. By the time you see me coming, it's too late. Death from above.

Sean lowers Masamune back to his side. His voice drops to a near whisper, the final lines barely louder than the hum of the light above.

(Sean): I know I’m ready to be World Champion, Stuart. You just have to ask yourself if you’re ready not to be.

The room falls silent once more, the only sound the soft scrape of Masamune sliding back into its saya. Sean stands tall, his shadow stretching impossibly long, looming ominously against the backdrop of the swaying light dangling from the ceiling.

(Sean): Ansatsusha ni eikō o.

Long Live the Assassin.

The camera lingers on him for a another brief moment. Finally, the light flickers one last time and plunges the room into darkness and the scene fades to black.