THREE GATES AND A VEIL
As Maraeth violently drags Corey Black through the blood-streaked corridors of a stolen ambulance, a greater reckoning unfolds. In a sealed subway temple, They foretell Corey’s threefold undoing—submission, deathmatch, and legacy—each gate a ritual of collapse. But beyond the fight lies a buried secret: the Veil, a failed prophet long left to rot in the thicket. Now, Maraeth calls her forth. The dream fractures. The hunger returns. CU:LT will not survive what wakes.
The way down to the Underworld is easy.
Night and day the gates of shadow stand open.
But to retrace the path, to return to the air above—
that is the labor, that is the task.
THE WALLS ARE TOO NARROW for gods to breathe.
We slam into Corey again—bone to steel, fury to restraint. The inside of the ambulance becomes blood, plastic, teeth. A tray crashes to the floor. Cabinets rattle like coffins in motion. We taste spit, leather, and something sweeter. He drives his forearm into Our throat—once, twice—and We reward him with Our thumb inside his cheek, curling toward tendon, trying to split the side of his face open from within.
A needle pierces his shoulder when We throw him into the supply rack. He doesn’t care. He grunts, roars, drives Us into the opposite wall so hard the lights flicker like they're about to blink out of existence. Our laughter cuts through the sirens.
“Good,” We snarl. “Get it out. You’re allowed to die angry.”
The sirens above scream like mourning mothers. Red pulses bathe the interior—splashing across Our arms, his beard, the blood-streaked floor. Each flash turns Us into silhouettes of slaughter.
Emilia says nothing.
She drives with elegance and silence, like she’s conducting a procession. Her hands rest lightly on the wheel. Her eyes never drift back. She knows what We’re doing. She knows what We are. And she doesn’t flinch.
Corey lands a punch that knocks something loose in Our jaw. We feel the tooth come free.
We swallow it.
The stretcher's unbolted now. It rolls like a loose animal. Corey reaches for it, but We reach faster—slamming it into his chest, pinning him against the cabinet. Once. Twice. His skull hits metal. A dull thud.
He grunts. Doesn’t fall.
We are not built to fall.
Then—
SLAM.
The ambulance brakes.
Everything flies.
We hit the edge of the oxygen cabinet. Something in Our neck cracks. Corey slams into the rear doors. His head snaps back like a hinge giving way.
Then silence.
Three seconds.
Maybe four.
He groans.
We push Ourselves upright, blood thick down Our face, one eye tightening under the pressure. Our smile is crooked. Honest. We taste everything.
“Why did you stop?”
Our voice is broken glass on the edge of a bottle.
No answer.
We stagger forward, hand dragging across the wall, and shove aside the curtain.
Emilia sits exactly as she should—boot pressed firm to the floor, spine straight, hand resting above the siren switch like a Queen touching the edge of a guillotine.
The siren is off.
But the red light keeps spinning.
And outside the windshield—
A child.
Bare-chested. Nine, maybe ten. Perched on a rusted bicycle like a ghost riding a throne. He stares into the cab, straight into Us. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
We feel it behind Us.
Click.
The bay doors swing open.
Corey crawls for freedom. Like a dog who hasn’t figured out the leash is around his soul, not his neck.
We don’t look at him.
We turn.
And kick.
The stretcher slams into his ribs. He goes flying, hits the ditch. Metal crashes. Leather straps wrap around him like a burial shroud.
Another groan. This one softer.
We step into the light of the open doors.
Outside, more children.
Boys. Girls. Shadows. Bicycle wheels squeaking in quiet rhythm. Their faces are blank. Perfect. Expectant.
They aren’t looking at him.
They’re looking at Us.
We lean from the back of the ambulance, framed in blood and siren-light. Hair tangled. Skin slick. Smile wide.
We point at Corey’s crumpled body.
“No insurance.”
One of the kids nods. Another giggles.
We slam the doors.
The sirens scream again. Emilia drives Us into the night like the road owes Her an apology.
And Us?
We laugh.
Because there’s still breath in Our lungs.
Still blood on Our tongue.
And We have not yet finished the sermon.
INT. SEALED SUBWAY TERMINAL – NIGHT
An abandoned MTA station. Graffiti swarms the tilework. Paint peels in long, curling strips. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and stutter, casting violent red and white flashes across the cavernous platform.
Three archways stand at the far end of the terminal. Each marked with a crude sigil—painted in dried black-red fluid that flakes when the light hits it wrong.In the center of the room, three CU:LT championship belts lie stacked atop a rusted steel slab:
The Classic Championship
The SNUFF Championship
The New World Championship
Each is damaged. Cracked leather. Blood-soaked stitching. One has a tooth embedded in the gold.
A low hum fills the space—untraceable, almost musical.
Footsteps. Bare. Wet. Echoing.
From the shadows, MARÆTH enters frame.
Barefoot. Cloaked in a black veil that trails across the concrete like oil. Their eyes catch the strobe—reflecting red, then void, then red again.
They pause at the edge of the altar of belts.
A breath.
Then—stillness.
MARÆTH stands before the pile of championships. They do not touch them.
For a long moment, They simply watch them—like one might study something that used to be alive.
Then, softly:
MARÆTH
Three gates.
Three falls.
Not one of them leads home.
They begin to walk—slowly—past the belts, toward the first arch.
MARÆTH
This is not a contest.
This is not about titles, or legacy, or proving anything to the crowd.
It never was.
They stop beneath the flickering light. Their face remains half-shadowed, half-divine.
MARÆTH
This is about Corey Black.
A pause.
The hum intensifies.
MARÆTH
A man who’s survived everything—
except the shape of his own end.
They turn Their head slightly, as if listening to something far away.
MARÆTH
These Gates are not his unmaking.
They are his translation.
MARÆTH approaches the first archway.
It’s narrow. Cracked tile gives way to damp stone. A coiled rope hangs from a rusted hook, tied like a noose, not unlike the one Corey used to hang Gorgo so long ago in a CU:LT ring. Beneath it, suspended by a bent nail, dangles a shattered jaw guard—its plastic warped, its straps stiff with dried blood.
They pause beneath it.
The light here flickers slower. Heavier.
MARÆTH
Submission is not surrender.
Submission is confession.
They extend a hand—fingertips brushing the coiled rope. It sways gently.
MARÆTH
The truth of who you are—extracted by force.
A moment when the body stops lying…
and the soul finally screams the name it tried to forget.
They gently nudge the jaw guard. It swings like a metronome.
MARÆTH
It is the soul’s last gasp before the lie collapses.
The moment when even breath begs for honesty.
Their head tilts. The rope sways.
MARÆTH
Yelena Gorgo has never tapped out.
Not in twenty years.
Not in judo.
Not in wrestling.
Not when her arm snapped.
Not when the mat turned red.
They pause—voice lowering.
MARÆTH
Can you say the same, Corey?
A beat.
MARÆTH
Of course not.
They step forward, slow, deliberate.
MARÆTH
But it’s worse than that.
Because this isn’t about you tapping out to her.
They glance back toward the arch.
MARÆTH
It’s not just Yelena anymore.
A smile, cruel and calm.
MARÆTH
You’re stepping into the dark, swinging at something
you can’t even name.
Their fingers drift along the jagged edge of the broken guard.
MARÆTH
This isn’t a match.
It’s a diagnosis.
And the first fall is just us listening to what breaks
when you try to resist the truth.
They walk on. The arch remains behind—breathing, watching.
MARÆTH approaches the second archway.
It’s wider than the first. The light above it stutters violently, casting sharp strobes across the floor. Each blink freezes the space like a crime scene.
Hanging from a rusted steel pipe is a folding chair, its surface studded with nails. Strands of barbed wire loop around it like a crown, or a noose. The chair sways slightly, creaking.
Blood—old, brown, and flaked—stains the wall beneath it.
MARÆTH stands directly under the hanging weapon. They do not flinch when the chair swings near Their face.
MARÆTH
They call this deathmatch.
But that’s generous, isn’t it?
A pause. The sirens overhead pulse louder—distant subway echoes bleeding into the frame.
MARÆTH
Death doesn’t live here.
It visits.
It flirts.
It teases.
But it doesn’t stay.
They reach up, touch one barbed loop—just enough to draw blood. It drips onto the concrete between Their feet.
MARÆTH
Corey Black wears scars like scripture.
He turned violence into vanity.
But there’s a difference between pain you collect…
and pain you sacrifice.
The chair swings again. This time, it clatters against the wall.
MARÆTH
You call yourself SNUFF Champion.
But tell us—what have you really killed, Corey?
A long silence. Maraeth turns Their head slowly—locking eyes with the lens.
MARÆTH
Yelena used to struggle with this kind of match.
The blood. The steel. The spectacle.
The disorder of it all. At the time the lawlessness made no sense to her.
But that was before.
They step out from under the arch, Their voice now shifting—deeper. More final.
MARÆTH
Before the scar.
Before the bottle.
Before us.
They turn Their back to the arch.
The chair sways. The barbs glint.
MARÆTH
This won’t be pain you overcome, Corey.
This will be pain that rewrites you.
MARÆTH approaches the third archway.
Unlike the others, it is unmarked. No ropes. No weapons. No sigils.
Just a tall, cracked mirror leaning against the wall where the abandoned tracks vanish into blackness. The tunnel behind it seems to breathe.
The mirror reflects nothing.
At first.
Then—briefly—Corey Black’s face flickers across the glass. Hollow-eyed. Silent. Watching.
And then it’s gone.
MARÆTH stops in front of the mirror. They do not touch it.
They simply stare.
MARÆTH
This is where it ends.
Not in fire.
Not in blood.
But in stillness.
Their breath fogs the mirror, distorting the darkness behind it.
MARÆTH
We pinned Max Daemon before you.
You took what was left.
We made it holy.
You made it louder.
A long silence. The subway hum deepens. The lights flicker harder.
MARÆTH
You call yourself New World Champion.
But tell us—how long do you think this world will even remember you?
They crouch slightly, speaking directly to their reflection—or to the absence of one.
MARÆTH
Last Man Standing is not about who survives.
It’s about who the silence obeys.
They straighten.
Their voice drops into a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm.
MARÆTH
One.
Two.
Three.
Each count is a vow that the world does not need you.
That the air moves easier without you.
They step aside.
The mirror now reflects no one.
Just the tracks.
Just the dark.
MARÆTH
You won’t be laid out, Corey.
You’ll be left behind.
MARÆTH returns to the center of the terminal.
The three archways loom behind Them, flickering in rhythmic succession—like a heartbeat slowing to stillness.
They kneel beside the pile of championships.
Their fingers are slick with blood—but it’s unclear when the bleeding began. They do not seem to notice.
They rest a hand atop the belts.
MARÆTH
You held these long enough.
They press Their forehead to the Classic Championship—eyes closed, as if listening.
MARÆTH
Now they remember us.
A long pause.
Then a breath—ragged, holy.
They rise to Their feet.
MARÆTH
Three gates.
Three deaths.
One truth.
The lights above begin to stutter, violently now—pulsing with a sound like wet bone snapping in rhythm.
They look directly into the camera. Eyes wide. Voice low.
MARÆTH
CU:LT is not the company you once loved, Corey.
(beat)
MARÆTH
It’s your tomb.
They reach toward the camera lens with bloodied fingers. Everything distorts. Colors invert. Static devours the feed. Just before it cuts—
MARÆTH (V.O.)
One fracture in the mirror.
And the dream collapses inward.
And when the hymn ends with no breath left to sing
and The Veil tears from within…
CU:LT will be
UNLEASHED.
CUT TO BLACK.
THE THICKET BREATHES IN SILENCE.
Branches twist without wind. Roots curl in their sleep. The trees lean too close together, as if huddled around a secret they don’t want to share.
We part the brush.
Mud clings to Our ankles. Leaves scrape at Our skin like they remember Us. The sky above has vanished—replaced by a canopy of choking moss and gnarled limbs. The deeper We go, the quieter it becomes. Even the crows won’t speak here.
She was buried here.
The Veil.
The failed prophet. The discarded witch. The one they whispered about and then pretended never existed.
Casanova thought it would be enough—marching through the dark, laying her down like a body instead of a question. He prayed this place would forget her. Swallow her.
It didn’t.
We arrive at the hollow. The soil is still wet. The roots still pulsing. Something beneath the dirt shifts—like breath held in for too long.
We kneel beside the place where the torso turned to bark, where the veins reached out to feed on rot.
“Hello, old girl,” We whisper. “Pity We did not meet before.”
We place a small object in the muck. A torn piece of canvas, soaked in Nocturne, wrapped around a broken brass pin—one that once held a championship plate to leather. The metal is blackened. The canvas still reeks of ash.
“You’ve been quiet long enough.”
The ground doesn’t open. Not yet.
But the branches above begin to sway—slowly, deliberately—though no wind touches them.
We smile.
“He thought he buried you. Hoped you would stay that way. We know better. You weren’t sleeping. You were rooting.”
The soil beneath Our palm quivers.
“I’m not here to resurrect you. We are here to give you permission.”
A pause.
A breath rises from the earth.
“You were never too much. You were the beginning. And now—we are so very close to the end.”
A low moan creaks from the trees. The sound of wood twisting under strain. Of hunger remembered.
“They thought the Veil was a warning. But you were the door.”
We lower Our voice—fond, reverent, cruel.
“Come back out, darling. They’ve made a mess of the place. Let’s finish what you started.”
The roots at the edge of the burial site tremble.
A single black flower bursts through the mud.
We do not touch it.
We rise.
And walk away.
Behind Us, something stirs in the hollow.
The thicket holds its breath.
She is waking.
