>>19475667>[For the first time in weeks, the old steel mill-turned-wrestling arena is silent.]Through rusted, once-siding metal doors, Henry takes a step, camera in hand set to video record, hesitating as the creaking of the walls cry out. He knows, as everyone who had attended these warehouse wars since their beginning knows, that if these factory walls could talk, they'd scream. But still, he creeps further inward, passing by the makeshift stands the fans had been sitting in. The wrestling ring is barely held together, at least three wooden boards poking up through the deeply blood-stained canvas. He gasps as something scuttles nearby. He hopes it is just a rat, or a monster, or a demon. And not the woman he came to see.
Gasping laughter echoes from an adjoining room, like a cancer patient at a comedy show. Henry has never been good at similes. Through the doorway, Henry sees a light flicker, and the pattering of footsteps. Something heavy clangs to the ground, and metal pipes rattle. There are always pipes. But it's now or never, and Henry steadies himself. Waking toward the door, he flings it open and sees...
Nothing. A small fire flickers, and Henry exhales deeply. Then, a whisper.
>new feiarnd cuome to play?From behind, steady puffs of air on Henry's neck give him goosebumps, and his fight or flight response -- flight, if you must know -- is working overtime. But his legs won't move. His brain switches off, and his eyes forget how to blink. Voice trembling, he speaks forward, intended for the creature behind.
"C-Cactus, I'm not h-here to play. I have a m-message -- a video, from another f-fighter. Someone else who wants to p-p-play. It's on my phone!"
Slowly, Henry reaches into his pocket and plays the pre-loaded video from Kanako Leichenburg. The audio echoes through the warehouse, with no reply from Cactus.
Eventually, Henry exhales again, with no movement or breathing behind him. He didn't get his photos, but he kept his life.
