Violent Delights. Violent Ends.

Bzzzzzzt!

Nathan jerks awake as his phone vibrates violently on the hard plastic of the small charging station at his side. His eyes blink, adjusting to a nearly desolate United Airlines terminal on the fringes of the Miami International Airport. Sleep-deprived and sore, he struggles to focus.

There is a low hum of emptiness that only airports can achieve in that liminal space between the last red-eye flight and first early-morning departure.

The whirr of a janitor's floor buffer swishes somewhere in the distance as the voice of some anchor on CNN drones on, unable to break the spell of sleep that has overtaken the travelers who have taken refuge under their single personal item and are using their carry-ons as pillows.

Nathan looks up to see the gate. C-17. Destination: Boston.

Suddenly, a snap of clarity hits him as Sonja’s words repeat back in his head like a skipping record playing in the lowest layer of his own personal hell.

She was so unstable, so wildly depressed ... well, there was just no way she could be alone anymore.

What judge would approve of having a mentally unstable, violent criminal such as yourself looking after a very sick grown woman?

My formal guardianship of Amy Lake.

She’s in good hands.

Arkham General Hospital.

Bzzzzzzt!

The phone rattles again, distracting Nathan, albeit briefly, from the sense of anger, of fear, of absolute disgust that was beginning to seep from his heart into every vein and artery.

3:47 AM.

Missed call.

Marcus.

The name is what makes him stop first … but then the time. Why was Marcus calling so early in the morning? Why now?

Whatever it was couldn’t be good.

Nathan’s breathing becomes shallow, his heart racing, as he taps his phone screen and answers.

“Nathan? Is that you? Where are you right now?”

“I’m… at the airport. I’m about to board a plane to Boston.”

“Boston!? No no no. You have to get back to Montevideo.”

“But my mom, she-”

“I know. Trust me, I know. I tried to warn you sooner but it’s bad, Nate. Real bad.”

Nathan’s blood goes cold.

“Just… slow down. What is it? Sonja was at my match earlier - she can’t be back in Montevideo already.”

“It’s not her. Well, I mean – it is. There’s so much I have to explain. But right now you need to get on the next flight to Minneapolis and get here. Wait, how far is it from Miami to Montevideo? Maybe you can drive and-”

“Stop. Stop. Stop. You’re freaking me out, man. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

There's a silence and Nathan knows immediately Marcus is debating how much to tell him. How much of the truth he should obscure.

“They’re in your house, Nate. Right now. Looking for it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will soon begin boarding United Flight 885 with service to Boston….”

Nathan looks around the empty terminal as the loudspeaker crackles to life.

“Who? Who is in my house, Marcus!? And looking for what?”

“The Book Club.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Book club?”

Wait. No. It couldn’t be.

“What book? What book!?”

“Oh God. I think they know I’m here.”

“Marcus!?”

“Just… get home, Nate. We need you. I need you. Find me when you get here.”

“Marcus! Wait-”

The other end goes dark. Silent. Nathan pulls the phone away and sees his home screen - a photo of his mother - looking back at him. He squeezes his boarding pass tight as his eyes dart from the gate, where people are already beginning to line up and board.

“Now boarding Group A passengers. Group A may now board.”

Nathan looks down as his thumb slides away to reveal his boarding pass.

Just him. A phone. And a choice.

He closes his eyes tightly and whispers.

“Please wait for me, mom. Just a bit longer.” ⏱️⏱️⏱️⏱️⏱️ Sage.

My mother always liked cooking with sage. Got Simon and Garfunkel-pilled sometime back I guess and put it in everything. She never was much for Rosemary, Parsley, or Thyme though, so maybe she just really liked the flavor.

What does that have to do with my opponent for ReVival 80? Nothing, I suppose. But it helps me remember her. That’s enough.

“It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.” Classic line. Tyler Durden. Fight Club… something I think we can all relate to, even a man carving out his own Lord of the Flies island paradise to avoid reality.

But then again, who am I to talk? I spent years running from my hometown, from my past, from what I thought was holding me back only to realize – maybe far too late – the very thing I thought was handcuffing me to a future I didn’t want is the one thing keeping me from floating out into space like George Clooney in Gravity.

I feel like I’ve lost everything, so why am I still stuck, unable to do anything that’s worth a damn?

I lost the Alias title. I’ve turned tail and run more times than I can count. And it’s getting harder and harder to wake up each morning and convince myself it wouldn’t be easier to just go back to sleep and let the rest of the world join me in peaceful darkness.

I’ve been mulling over this idea of cause and effect – how the decisions we make at any given point in time have ripple effects that permeate and mutate days, months, and years into the future.

I spent a decade chasing fantasy in a city built on smoke and mirrors. Be this. Do that. Hit your mark. Cut. Reset. We'll fix it in post.

You live in a world of make-believe long enough and you forget why you’re even there. And maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself of this entire time. Heading from city to city - state to state - country to country; always on the run. Always moving.

Single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter. Shampoo-conditioner combos, sample-packaged mouthwash, tiny bars of soap.

For the longest time I didn’t think I had a choice. That I just hurt people - emotionally and physically - because that was what I was supposed to do. But the truth is I always had a choice. 

We all have a choice. ✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️ Nathan stands up, boarding pass in hand, and walks over to the gate agent, each step like he’s sinking further into and pulling himself out of concrete.

With a cold stare, he slides his boarding pass and asks to rebook his flight. Not to Boston, but to Minneapolis. He watches as the agent rattles away at the keyboard, her nails scratching at the plastic and making his skin crawl.

Nathan passes the janitor with the buffing machine. Casts an eye at the television showing CNN. Grips his roller bag and heads toward the other end of the terminal. Past the overpriced chocolates. Romance novels. USB cables marked up 400%.

He looks down at his new boarding pass. 6 AM flight. Boarding time: 60 minutes away. One way ticket to Minneapolis.

Nathan raises his head, just feet from his new gate, and suddenly plants his feet firmly in the hub of the many-spoked burst of arrivals and destinations, shepherding hundreds of passengers to conferences, business trips, vacations, and into the safety of their homes, of their families.

His muscles tense as he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. Each step taking him closer to Montevideo, and further away from Arkham.

Nathan finds a seat and pulls out his phone, hoping for a call or a text from Marcus, but none comes. Soon, the gate agent pipes to life and the gate begins to fill — the sky through the windows begins to lighten as the sun peeks over the horizon.

“Welcome passengers, we will soon begin boarding for United Flight 998 with service to Minneapolis. If all those requiring assistance, or have young children would please make your way to the gate we would like to clear you now for pre-check…”

Nathan stands up, grabs his luggage, and goes to stand in line. He takes his phone out one last time and looks. A new message from Marcus.

“I’m safe. See you soon.”

He quickly types something and hits send before putting the device back in his pocket and stepping forward towards the gate, a sense of dread slowly being replaced with something else… something… hopeful.   🏠🏠🪦🏠🏠 “This is as far as I go. No way I’m driving into that.”

Nathan Lake looks up, distracted by his phone as his eyes linger on Marcus’ last message. “I’m safe. See you soon.” Then his texts.

"Marcus? Where are you?"

"What is going on? Tell me."

"Why was someone at my house?"

Nathan rubs his eyes and tries to shake away the stupor.

“Excuse me?”

His Lyft driver, Paulo, turns around and gestures toward a large sign that says “Welcome to Montevideo: All-America City” and shakes his head.

Nathan looks at the sign he’s probably seen more than a thousand times heading back and forth out of town as a kid and then looks at Paulo, eyes constantly shifting from Nathan to his driver-side window and then over to the passenger side.

“Yeah. I got it.”

Nathan steps out of the vehicle and circles to the back of the car to find the trunk has already been popped open. He grabs his luggage - a single roller bag - and just as he closes up shop, Paulo's tires spin, kicking up gravel as the car peels out, leaving for the comfort and safety of the interstate system.

He watches as the Camry speeds out of sight as a shiver makes his way up his body from heel to head.

“Yeah. I know the feeling…”

Nathan turns around and sees a familiar stretch of country road vanishing toward the horizon. The comforting sight of his hometown is immediately soured.

Something's wrong.

He takes a breath and closes his eyes.

Blaze. You ready?

No answer.

He mouths the next words aloud, to himself. At himself.

“Really?”

Silence.

“Yeah. Okay. Just me then, I guess…” 🌳✂️🌳✂️🌳 Nathan had seen enough movies to know he was smack dab in the middle of Act II of some knock-off version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers or The Stepford Wives.

Every building. Every home… perfectly maintained. Perfectly presented. Too perfect.

Mrs. Henderson’s garden, overrun with weeds since her husband died more than a decade ago, is now immaculate and blooming with every color rose under the sun.

Mr. Paulmeyer’s house, so poorly maintained the kids still called it “Peeling Paulmeyers” now has a fresh coat of royal blue paint and white window shutters.

And the Doorlys’ fence—cracked and smashed by a generation of errant baseballs, bike accidents, and hail damage is standing perfectly straight.

It doesn’t take long for Nathan to become aware of them. His neighbors. Watching.

From windows. From porches. From perfectly maintained yards.

Mrs. Henderson. Mr. Paulmeyer. The Doorlys. The Chens. The Swansons.

The neighbors who'd watched him grow up. Who'd waved from their porches. Who'd hosted Fourth of July block parties with sparklers, hot dogs, and Twister ... these expressions of care and community were now corrupted. No warmth. Just cold, lifeless eyes watching him.

Their heads turn slowly as he passes. Eyes tracking. Unblinking.

Then he sees her.

Mrs. Henderson, standing in her garden with a pair of oversized shears, opening and closing them, pantomiming, until Nathan approaches.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

“Mrs. Henderson? Are you... alright?”

She stops. He stops. Then she turns.

Nathan’s blood runs cold as Mrs. Henderson looks at him - through him. The fiery blue eyes that would sneak him an extra five-dollar bill after mowing her lawn and teased him about when he was going to find a nice young girl to settle down with were flat. Muted. Empty.

She cocks her head slightly, like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound, but soon returns to her hedges and begins to open and close her shears once more. Cutting nothing but air.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

“Nathan!”

“Jesus Christ!”

Nathan spins around to see Marcus, dressed in baggy sweats, eyes wide, grabbing at his arm.

“What are you doing!? You can’t be here! Follow me.”

Marcus doesn’t wait for an answer before dragging Nathan off of the main thoroughfare, cutting through the Lairimer’s driveway.

“Wait. When did they get new siding?”

“They didn’t. And be quiet until we’re there.”

“Where?” 💡🔥💡🔥💡 I look at you Sage and I see myself. More than I ever did looking in a mirror. Whether that's a compliment or an insult I'll let you decide.

I see a man who cast off every connection worth a damn, struggling to find meaning in a cycle of violence. Whether it’s Hollywood or Rancho Mundo… the song remains the same.

Power for power’s sake wrapped in some grand mythology of our own making to mask the fact that we are both just selfish assholes who have hurt the people we care about the most.

And that’s the thing that fucking sucks. Our past isn’t some sort of cloak we get to cast off. It’s on your skin. It’s in your blood. For better or for worse we are the culmination of every choice we’ve made in life and where we go from here depends on the choice we make next.

Fate has fucked me enough by this point we might as well be engaged; but truth be told I’ve had my fill of looking to others to define me and I’ve grown tired of soothsayers, prophets, and cult leaders who claim they have the answer to life’s great mysteries.

No Lesson or Monolith or grand truth written in the stars is at play here. It’s just two assholes in the middle of a wrestling ring, beating the shit out of each other until one of us is too tired to move.

What was that line from Romeo and Juliet? These violent delights have violent ends?

Yeah. Pretty words from a pretty play… but there is no Deus ex Machina at work here. We are not bound to any future by fate. Or the Gods. Or even our base instincts. There is always a way out of the darkness.

You're just a man with his own battles. Just as I’m a man with mine.

The most powerful thing I can do is recognize that crushing you doesn't solve anything. And I have no interest in making you a martyr.

I may not be able to make you see the light, Sage, but I won’t be the one to drive you further into darkness either. I’ve been far enough down that road and now it’s time to find my way back.

Purpose isn't found in violence. It's found in what you're willing to protect.

Whether the Lesson, the Cult of Cuchilla, or whatever house of horrors Max Kael has waiting for me in Arkham, I am done being afraid of what lurks in the dark.

It’s time for what lurks in the dark to be afraid of me. 📖📼📖📼📖 The metal jangling of keys feels like a full-piece brass band against the oppressive mid-day silence outside the Montevideo Public Library.

“Why the hell is the library closed in the middle of a Saturday? It's only ever closed for Christmas and Easter.”

Nathan pauses.

“And why do you have keys to get into the library, Marcus?”

“Shh!”

With a soft click, Marcus turns the base of what looks to be a brand new padlock and slowly opens one of the thick oak doors, inlaid with 19th-century stained glass, just enough to slip in through the gap.

“Come on.”

Nathan looks around. Normally the street would be at least somewhat full with people leaving church or heading to lunch at Lisa’s Cafe, but there wasn’t even a stray dog or cat to cross the street.

“Come ON!”

Nathan reluctantly wedges his way between the crack in the door and stumbles into the familiar foyer. The smell of old books jolts through his brain, unlocking a core memory of his mother forcing him here every weekend during grade school. His mother insisted he get his "money's worth" even though the card was free. He just checked out VHS tapes and DVDs instead.

“Follow me.”

Marcus reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulls out a flashlight. It’s only then that Nathan realizes every light in the library is turned off. His finger runs along the ancient wood railing that lines the building’s winding spiral staircase and pulls back a layer of dust.

“The library isn’t just closed today, is it?"

Marcus stops and turns back to look at Nathan.

“No. It’s been like this for almost a month. Everything the town reads now is pre-selected. Vetted by ‘The Club.’”

Nathan goes to say something but Marcus presses on. He follows.

Eventually the pair reach the ground floor. The archives.

Marcus swings his flashlight from left to right, clearly looking for something.

“What are we-”

“Shhh!”

Nathan’s blood begins to boil and he reaches toward Marcus, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him backwards. The flashlight swings directly into Nathan’s face as he winces and tries to block his eyes. Marcus hisses at him.

“What are you doing!?”

Nathan hisses back.

“What am I doing!? What are you doing!? We’re breaking into the library, everyone in town is a fucking zombie, and you are telling me some ‘club’ is running the town. I need answers, Marcus. What is she up to? Who was in my house the other day? And why is my mom imprisoned in some fucked up town a thousand miles away run by the monster who tortured me and held me captive last year? What aren’t you telling me!?”

Marcus sighs and grabs a nearby chair, dropping his body weight onto it like he’s been carrying a literal mountain this entire time. He scans the shelves with his flashlight, rows and rows of books, encyclopedias, atlases – an entire world of knowledge and history at the town’s fingertips.

“I wish I had seen it sooner. But by the time I realized, they were already turned.”

Nathan walks over toward Marcus and grabs a seat opposite him.

"They were going through your house like rabid animals, Nate. Tearing open drawers, closets... even the floorboards. When I came back in the morning, the front door was wide open and people were passing by like everything was normal. That's when I remembered something my dad told me back when we were kids."

Nathan leans back, a chill running up his spine.

"Montevideo is more than a town..."

Nathan finishes the thought.

"...it's a doorway. My mom used to say the same thing."

“Shit man. You think you were the only one wanting to bug out as soon as we could? To escape? We all did. We still do – and she fed on that.”

Marcus lowers his head, his voice shaking.

“Even my girls.”

Nathan’s heart drops.

“Sonja? She did all of this?”

Marcus looks up at Nathan and shakes his head. Even in the dark he can see his eyes are swollen and red.

“We did this to ourselves, Nate. We welcomed whatever this... darkness is with open arms and by the time it had its hands around our throat it was too late.”

There’s a silence… one that Nathan holds as long as he can before his mouth overrides his brain.

“So how do we stop it?”

Marcus pushes his chair back, grabs the flashlight, and gestures for Nathan to follow. He walks several more steps before coming upon a single shelf tucked away in a corner and reaches his hand out, grabbing the spine of a thick, leather-bound book.

"I couldn't put it together myself at first, but then it hit me... why would a Book Club close a library? Why would they be looking in your house? Trying to keep you and your mom out of Montevideo?"

He hands the book to Nathan and points the flashlight toward the cover. There’s no title. No author. The leather feels somehow firm but fragile at the same time.

"Unless there was something they needed to destroy. Something she is afraid of?"

Nathan opens up the pages and sees handwritten notes, prose, poetry, and messages scribed in quill ink, pencil, charcoal, and pen. There are dates. 1800s. 1900s. 2000s. And the last entry, written October 2025, simply reads:

Don't let the light burn out. - A. Lake

With a shaky hand, Nathan turns the page to reveal the remainder of the book is hollowed out and resting in its cavity are several old DV tapes. Ones with his name on them.

He looks up at Marcus who just nods softly, knowingly, as the reality of the situation begins to crystallize and take shape.

“So what do you say, Nathan? Finally ready to be the hero?”