Night drapes itself over the skyline like black silk. From a rooftop high above the streetlights, Oswald Knight stands alone, one hand resting on the polished curve of his umbrella cane. The hum of the city is faint here — muted engines, distant shouts, the occasional siren — all blending into the white noise he’s learned to work above. His eyes trace the streets below like a cartographer mapping enemy territory. He doesn’t blink much.
Oswald Knight (calm, precise) This city deserves a better class of criminal. I’m going to give it to them.
He steps forward until his shoes touch the lip of the ledge, the wind catching his coat.
Every match is a heist… every punch is a planned gambit. Emotions? Weakness. Love? A cocktail of chemicals to deceive the mind. The Youngblood Title? A useful bargaining chip. UOW’s roster? Targets for the heist.
He pauses — just long enough for the rhythm of his breathing to slow — then his voice drops, quieter, sharper.
I used to believe in people. Once.
[Flashback — fragmented snapshots] A younger Oswald, no umbrella cane, just taped fists and a small frame burning with determination.
In a tag title eliminator match, blood on his brow, smile still there despite it.
He tags his partner — a man he trusts — and the partner steps through the ropes… then turns… then walks down the ramp without looking back.
The other team pounces. The crowd roars, some boo, but nobody stops it.
Oswald on his knees, coughing, eyes on the entranceway… waiting.
No one stepped in to save the day, no hero rode in on a noble steed.
Back to the present day: Oswald’s jaw tightened, smirk thin, voice like a razor.
That night, I learned loyalty is a currency everyone spends. And when it runs out… they leave you for dead. Since then, I’ve fought alone. No attachments. No distractions. And I’ve never been caught with my guard down again.
A faint smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
I already robbed the fabled ‘The Sphinx’ Drake Nygma of the Youngblood Championship, ending his reign. If he couldn’t stop me… what hope do the rest of you have?
He taps the tip of his umbrella twice against the concrete ledge — a small, deliberate signal — before turning toward the stairwell door.
Montreal Walk — Prepping for the Heist
Snow falls in fine, slow flakes — the kind that catches in streetlamps and makes the whole block look like it’s underwater. Oswald moves through Old Montreal’s cobblestone streets in a charcoal coat, scarf neat at his collar. His steps are slow but deliberate, each one a metronome beat. The umbrella cane taps in syncopation.
Oswald (voiceover) They see a smaller frame and think ‘toy.’ They see a polite step to the side and think ‘soft.’ They mistake civility for weakness… until I take from them something they can’t get back.
He stops at a window of a closed chocolatier, staring at his own faint reflection.
Oswald (voiceover) “The job from Luca? Simple on paper. Complicated in execution. They’re brash, these two. Hungry. But hunger makes people reckless… and recklessness makes people sloppy.”
Walking again, passing under a wrought-iron streetlamp, a burst of laughter from a café draws his gaze — two men inside, one with the cocky tilt of the head from Luca’s photo. He doesn’t enter. He simply watches, filing away tells: posture, gestures, habits.
Oswald (murmured) “Found you.”
[Montage] Quietly sketching diagrams in a bistro — arena layout, blind spots, patrol patterns.
Walking the frozen waterfront, murmuring mock introductions: “Bonsoir, gentlemen… here to collect.”
Standing atop a parking structure, looking down at the arena’s loading bay.
Oswald (voiceover) The match will be a vault. They guard it with bravado, speed, strength… but I already have the combination. All I need now… is the right moment to spin the dial.
Snow gathers on his shoulders, unbothered. He adjusts his gloves, the flick of leather against leather echoing in the alley.
[Luca’s black sedan, city quiet] Oswald leans on his cane, envelope in hand, snow dusting his coat.
Luca And? The targets?
Oswald tilts his head, letting a faint sardonic smirk creep across his face.
Oswald The job is done. You can imagine the rest.
He pauses, letting the silence hang — tasting it. Then, a quieter, colder line: Oswald (voice low, almost a whisper) I learned long ago that the people you trust… are the ones most likely to stab you. I keep that lesson in mind, always.
[Luca’s eyes narrow — he doesn’t ask more. He doesn’t need details. He only knows Oswald operates beyond comprehension.]
Oswald (straightening, cane tapping the pavement)
Consider it handled. Montreal just got a little… colder.
Oswald slips into the shadows, leaving Luca imagining the meticulous precision, the unseen strikes, the phantom-like presence of Mr. Penguin.
‘The Stitch and the Scar’ Location: Saint Laurent Street, Montreal – A narrow, dim-lit tailor’s shop with polished oak floors and the faint scent of cedar. Outside, snow drifts lazily past the frosted window. Inside, the quiet snip of scissors and the soft hum of jazz fill the air.
[Oswald stands on a raised fitting platform, jacket removed, shirt cuffs rolled up. A tailor works with methodical precision, measuring the drape of the fabric on Oswald’s shoulders. Across from him sits a nameless interviewer, notebook in hand.]
INTERVIEWER: You’ve always worked alone. Was it always that way?
OSWALD (soft chuckle, eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror): No. Once… I believed in partnerships. Believed in trust.
INTERVIEWER: What changed?
[The tailor adjusts a seam on Oswald’s right sleeve. Oswald speaks with the careful diction of a man who’s replayed this story too many times in his head.]
OSWALD: We were one match away. Tag Team Title Eliminator. All we had to do was win… and then it was ours. He—my so-called partner—he didn’t just falter. He handed them the match. Left me in the ring to be torn apart. And then… he shook their hands.
[A pause. The tailor stops for a moment, sensing the weight in Oswald’s voice, then quietly continues measuring.]
OSWALD (eyes narrowing slightly): Do you know what it feels like… to have the match, the moment, the glory gift-wrapped and stolen from you—not by your enemies, but by the man in your corner? That day… I learned heroes aren’t noble. They’re just cowards with better press.
INTERVIEWER: So that’s when you—
OSWALD (cutting in, with a thin smile): —When I stopped seeing the good in people. When I stopped letting emotions make me weak. I traded in trust… for calculation. Love… for leverage.That day, I buried Oswald the partner… and built Oswald the predator.
[The tailor steps back, examining the suit in progress. Oswald looks at himself in the mirror—sleek lines, dark fabric, precision in every stitch.]
OSWALD (soft, almost to himself): You can stitch a new suit over old scars… but you never forget where they cut deepest.
[Fade out as the tape measure slides from his shoulders, and the snow outside thickens.]
‘Screaming on the Inside’
Location: Dr. Katie Snow’s Therapy Clinic – A small, warmly lit office, bookshelves lined with psychology texts and soft lamps casting golden pools of light. Outside, winter presses against the frosted windows, muffling the city noise. Inside, the faint hum of a heating unit fills the pauses between words.
[Oswald Knight sits slouched in the leather chair opposite Dr. Katie Snow. He’s impeccably dressed as always, gloves still on, hat resting on his knee. His eyes flick from the books on the shelf to the ticking clock, avoiding hers.]
KATIE: You’ve been quiet so far. What’s on your mind today?
OSWALD (dry, clipped): Heroes.
KATIE: Heroes?
OSWALD (snapping his gaze to her): Yes, the shining faces on your posters and billboards. They’re liars. Wrapped in a glossy shell so the public can swallow them like candy. You think they save people? They save themselves.
KATIE (calmly): That’s a strong statement.
OSWALD (leaning forward, voice sharpening): The chaotic types—those self-proclaimed “wildcards”—they’re even better liars. They pretend they don’t care, pretend to be dangerous, but underneath they still cling to the same desperate need for validation. Me? I’m the only one in that locker room telling the uncomfortable truth.
KATIE: Which is?
OSWALD (lean smile, dismissive wave): That no one is worth trusting. No one deserves your faith. The moment you believe in someone, they’ll sell you out for applause or a paycheck.
[Katie watches him, her pen still, noting the sharp edges in his voice. She tilts her head slightly, speaking evenly.]
KATIE: It sounds like you’ve been carrying this for a long time.
OSWALD (laughs once—short, bitter): Long enough to know it’s not a phase.
KATIE: And yet… there’s anger behind your words. Not just indifference.
[Oswald’s expression freezes for a fraction of a second—then he tilts his head, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes.]
OSWALD: Anger’s inefficient. Wastes energy. I operate on calculation.…But sometimes… calculation remembers.
KATIE: Remembers what?
[Oswald’s jaw tightens. He leans back, eyes flicking to the window where snow drifts past.] OSWALD: That betrayal isn’t just an event—it’s a seed. And in the right conditions… it grows.
[Katie says nothing. She doesn’t need to—she can feel it. The rage under the ice, the slumbering beast shifting in its chains.]
OSWALD (with an unpredictable, almost amused tone): One day, Doctor, someone’s going to see what happens when that seed finishes growing. And they won’t like the harvest.
[Silence stretches. The clock ticks on. Katie watches as Oswald settles back into his chair, the sharp edges of his fury vanishing behind the polished mask once more.]
[Katie studies him for a moment. The stillness between them feels stretched, fragile.]
KATIE: You’ve said the betrayal was a seed. Tell me what happens when it grows.
[Oswald exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded, voice lowering into something steady yet strangely lyrical.]
OSWALD: Throw the bait… catch the shark… bleed the water red.
[Katie’s pen moves across the page, but her gaze never leaves him.]
OSWALD (leaning forward slightly): I taste like magic—waves that swallow quick and deep.
KATIE: That’s… poetic.
OSWALD (cutting her off, eyes narrowing): Where can I go… when the shadows are calling? Shadows… are calling me.
[His voice dips further, rhythm almost hypnotic now, fingers tapping against the chair’s armrest.]
OSWALD: What can I do… when it’s pulling me under? Pulling me underneath?
[Katie shifts her pen aside slowly.]
OSWALD (his tone sharpening to a hiss): Like blood in my veins… darkness is sinking. Darkness… is sinking me.
[There’s a pause. His gloved hand rests over his chest as if feeling something deep beneath.]
OSWALD (more quietly, but with a chill that seeps into the room): Commanding my soul… I am under the surface— where the blackness burns beneath.
[Katie doesn’t speak for several seconds, watching him closely. Oswald blinks, and the intensity in his eyes retracts just enough for his mask of civility to slip back into place.]
KATIE (evenly): It sounds like you’ve already decided there’s no way back.
OSWALD (smiles thinly): Doctor… there never was.
[Dr. Katie Snow – Private Clinical Notes | Patient: Oswald Knight]
Observation: Knight presents with an outwardly controlled affect, masking underlying volatility. In session, he shifted rapidly between philosophical detachment and almost predatory focus. The poetic language he employed (“Throw the bait… bleed the water red”) appears both rehearsed and deeply felt — possibly serving as self-mythologizing.
Key Theme: Strong fixation on the perceived corruption of “heroes.” He frames these individuals as “liars wrapped in a pretty shell,” with a particular contempt for “chaotic types,” whom he calls “better liars.” His stance is that only he — as a self-described “true neutral” — speaks the “uncomfortable truth.”
Contradiction: Despite condemning the moral failings of others, Knight openly admits to acts that he would classify as “dark” or “criminal.” No remorse noted; in fact, his admissions carry a quiet pride. The patient appears to believe the hypocrisy of heroes makes his own amorality more honest by comparison.
Risk Assessment: His “true neutrality” is less a balanced philosophical position and more a frozen lake under which anger sleeps. Today’s session hinted at that ice thinning. The betrayal he experienced years ago is a fixation point; he replays it in language and metaphor that dehumanizes the betrayer.
Final Note: If the “slumbering beast” within him wakes, I suspect the neutrality will vanish, replaced by something far more dangerous — and perhaps, in his mind, more truthful.
The city slides by outside in fractured reflections — neon signs bleeding into wet streets, faces flashing in the glass for half a second before vanishing.
Oswald sits in the back seat, head leaning slightly against the cold window, the faint vibration of the engine humming through him. He isn’t relaxed — he’s calculating.
The driver doesn’t speak. Not his role.
From the passenger seat, a phone is passed back. Oswald takes it without looking at the man’s face.
LUCA (voice, calm but razor-sharp): "Something came in. You’ll like this one. Private vault, discreet owner, high-value item. No police reports when it disappears. You can guess the rest."
Oswald studies the passing streetlights instead of answering immediately. When he does speak, it’s like he’s still somewhere between the therapist’s office and the job — as if Katie Snow’s calm questions are still echoing in his mind, sharpening into something useful.
OSWALD: "Throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red."
"Tell me where, tell me who, and I’ll tell you when they’ll start missing it."
Luca chuckles on the other end. It’s not warm.
LUCA: "You never ask ‘why,’ do you?"
OSWALD: "‘Why’ is a distraction. The shadows are calling."
The phone call ends. Oswald sets it on the seat beside him, eyes narrowing like he’s already walking through the blueprint of the theft in his mind. Somewhere under the careful stillness, the frozen beast shifts again, heavier this time.
OSWALD (murmured, to no one): "One more heist… and they’ll remember I’m not the hero they were hoping for."
The sedan turns down an unmarked alley. The night swallows them whole.
[Scene: Interior – Private Vault | Montreal | 2:14 AM]
Silence. The kind of silence that means money has paid for soundproofing.
Oswald stands before the reinforced door, pale gloved fingers dancing over the keypad. His lips move slightly — not in prayer, but in the slow recitation of numbers he’s already memorized from hours of subtle observation.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The lock sighs open.
Inside we can see: polished mahogany shelves, safety deposit drawers, and at the far end — a pedestal under glass. Resting upon it, lit by a single downlight, is a gold pocket watch. The engraving is faint, worn smooth with time, but the name still reads: “Cornelius V. Marchand.”
To most, it’s an antique curiosity.
To the right buyer? The key to unlocking millions in off-shore accounts, untouched for decades.
Oswald steps forward slowly, as though walking through an art gallery. The case’s lock is bypassed in thirty seconds, his hands never rushing.
He slips the watch into his jacket pocket — close to his chest, but not for sentiment. This isn’t an object to love. It’s leverage.
A distant shuffle — guard rotation, early. Oswald freezes, then moves with feline efficiency, ducking between shelves until he’s at the service exit. By the time the guard enters the vault, the pedestal is empty, and the night has swallowed the thief whole.
[Scene Cut – Interior: Private Penthouse Suite | Montreal | 3:27 AM]
Luca pours a drink without asking if Oswald wants one.
Across from them, behind a desk worth more than most homes, sits The Boss — a man in his sixties with silver hair combed back and a voice that has survived decades of backroom deals.
The watch sits between them on the desk, the gold catching the light like a predator’s eye.
BOSS: "I’ll admit, Knight — you were a gamble." (pauses, leaning forward)
"But a profitable one. This little treasure opens accounts that were supposed to be dead. Money we can put to… influence."
He gestures casually to a framed photo of a wrestling ring, empty but lit like a stage.
BOSS: "We’ve invested in you — not just as a thief, but as the Youngblood Champion. That belt isn’t just a title; it’s access. It gets you into locker rooms, offices, and circles we can’t walk into. You’re not here to defend it — you’re here to use it."
Luca smirks at Oswald like this was always the plan.
OSWALD (measured, with a flicker of cold amusement): "Every match a heist. Every opponent… a vault to be opened."
The Boss leans back, satisfied.
BOSS: "Good. Because in this city, the better class of criminal… gets to write the rules."
The glass of whiskey is raised in toast.
Oswald doesn’t drink. He just smiles, faintly, as if already plotting the next job.
[Scene: Interior – The Boss’s Private Estate | Outskirts of Montreal | Dawn]
Oswald stands in a vast study, walls lined with books older than the city itself. The smell of aged paper and leather is almost intoxicating.
The Boss — now without the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up — leans on a polished cane. His voice is calm, but the weight behind it feels like it could press a man into the floor.
BOSS: "My name’s Alain Marchand. Yes… the same Marchand whose name is engraved in that watch you lifted. I am Cornelius Marchand’s heir. And that makes you the first man in twenty years to outplay my security."
He steps closer, eyes sharp.
MARCHAND: "You’ve been smart, Knight. Smarter than most. But intelligence alone is a blade without an edge. I’m going to sharpen you."
[Montage – Training] Lockpicking – In a dimly lit workshop, Marchand watches as Oswald struggles with a complex antique lock. “Listen to it breathe,” Marchand says. Oswald closes his eyes, feeling each tiny click until the shackle snaps open.
Disguise – A mirror, a dozen outfits, subtle prosthetics. Oswald goes from an art critic to a dockworker to a wounded veteran in under an hour.
Silent movement – Hardwood floors and glass marbles scattered at random. The challenge: cross the room without a single sound. By the fourth attempt, Oswald moves like a shadow at low tide.
Social engineering – A fake gala with hired actors. Marchand throws him into the crowd with one objective: walk out with the hostess’s bracelet without her knowing. He does it while shaking her hand goodbye.
Escape drills – Blindfolded, locked in a room with no obvious exit. It takes him thirteen minutes to find the false wall. On his fifth attempt, three minutes flat.
[Back in the Study] Oswald’s suit is damp with sweat, but his movements are sharper, cleaner. Marchand studies him like a jeweler examining a cut gem.
MARCHAND: "Now you have the hands, the feet, and the tongue of a thief. Paired with that mind of yours? You’re dangerous."
OSWALD (cool, but with an edge): "Throw the bait. Catch the shark. Bleed the water red."
Marchand smirks, pleased with his protégé’s evolution.
MARCHAND: "Good. Montreal’s yours to play with, Knight — just remember… I taught you the rules. Break them, and you’ll answer to me."
Oswald’s faint smile returns. This time, it’s not just the grin of a man with ideas — it’s the look of a man with the tools to make them real.
[Old Port, Montreal – Midnight]
The St. Lawrence River is black glass under the moonlight. Cargo cranes loom like skeletal sentinels, their arms swinging lazily as freighters creak against the dock.
Somewhere beyond the hum of diesel engines, a violin plays faintly — a busker packing up for the night.
Oswald moves through the shadows in a tai