To a dim Chicago skyline. The sun has begun to set, and it creates clouds of red and orange just above you. He's leaning against the guardrail of the rooftop. Wearing dark denim jeans and a white polo.

The wind is heavy. You're taking it all in. That crisp, cold fall air. The mixture of colors in the sky. And a certain pair of stoic green eyes that tell their own story amidst the scene. You've heard it all before. Maybe this time you'll pay more attention to detail.

"You say that I think you're a stepping stone."

"Please, god, please... Don't give yourself that much credit."

"This match means dick to my career. I'm going to beat you. Yeah, so? I'm not competing for bush league status. You mean dick to me. Not that second grade dick that you love so much. You aren't the means to an end. You're a bitch. You aren't funny enough to be a joke. You aren't smart enough to be shit. You're just a bitch."

"You didn't beat me to win any of those 'title runs'. That's one very simple fact that speaks a lot more clearly than eight bootlegs sitting in frames. We're not asking you what you did in 'this federation' or 'that federation'. Maybe you ran a gauntlet through multiple high-caliber athletes to get those fifteen minutes you lament in so much. Maybe you just put the children of eight referees through college. You could tell me either and I'd still be looking at you the same way."

"You're grasping for straws. But your arm is about shoulder deep in your own ass. That's how we see you. That's how you come off."

"And I bet you'd love to have this great discussion about whether or not people are really themselves in front of a camera or if they're just putting on an act. Are we all each of us a gimmick? Can we ever truly be ourselves? Thing is your arm has been up that ass of yours so long it's starting to smell. Really badly. Making me want to put this match out of my mind as soon as possible. 'Cause nothing I say is going to make you hit any realization. No words are going to get that smell off of your hand. Monday night I told you that I was winning this match because I fucking know how. You clearly don't."

"It doesn't seem like it should be that cut and dry, but it really is."

"If you actually understood why you don't pose a challenge, you wouldn't be so eager to smear your face on that camera. But your world isn't closing in around you. You aren't buckling at your knees and searching for a deity to save you. I'm not going to tell you why you should be scared. I'm just going to tell you that the fact you're not is the purest evidence you aren't even in my league. You consider it ignorant that I've never heard any of your acronyms or any of the accolades you've hit in your 'career'."

"I find it ignorant that you don't have the ability to realize when you're outclassed on every level."

"That kind of ignorance isn't bliss. It's just a reason to keep living when you don't have anything else to hold onto. So go ahead, keep grasping for straws. Give us some more of that second second grade humor and stuck up nonsense. You aren't just wallowing in shit. You're buried in it. That's a lot more than just ignorant. It's pathetic. There's nothing else for me to pick apart or even to laugh at. It's done. It's over. Goodbye, Scotty. Goodnight."

He's been shaking his head the whole time. You watch him rub his temple, before a very nonchalant wave sends you off.