Our eyes open inside a desolate chamber with ominous stone walls, flickering torches and a single throne carved from obsidian. A thick silence presses against the frame. Another set of eyes linger upon the throne uncertain as if the room itself has the ability to breathe. Then footsteps: soft. Heels. Measured. Dollia Trypp comes into view.
Dollia wears white, but the hem of her coat is dusted with ash-UOW’s battlefield still clings to her. Dollia’s eyes flick upward tracking the figure seated on the throne. Unmoving. Still as a sculpture of wraith. Her Brother.
The Sphinx.
Drake Nygma.
The Unpinned. The Uncontested. The Uncrowned.
Dollia:
Voice soft, almost afraid to wake the god within.
“They took it.”
A flicker in his jaw. A pulse of something under the skin. Something old. Something vast.
The Sphinx
His voice is like quiet thunder, growling softly.
“No, they did not take it. They conspired. They corrupted the rite. They contaminated the rite with mortal chaos.”
Flashback: snippets of the triple threat match. The Sphinx dominated the match. Breaking bodies. Crushing his foes. Oswald Knight barely breathing. Lightning Man moving with speed. Then Sasori-The Heretic. The Uninvited God. A spear through ceremony. The Brawl. The Theft. Oswald crawled over broken bones to clutch a prize he had not earned.
THE SPHINX (standing now, his voice rising like a storm beneath the Nile) “There were no victors. Only vermin. A title reign ended not by combat… but by cowardice. And now? A penguin perches on a throne forged for lions.”
The camera closes on Dollia’s face. Concern threads her brow. Her fingers twitch near her wrist—a subconscious warding gesture.
DOLLIA (measured) “You know this isn’t over. Rupert Mudcock… Haruki Tanaka… they wear different masks, but it was the same whisper in both their ears. The same fear.”
(beat)
“They saw you win the Ronin Rumble. They saw what’s inside you. What you’re becoming.”
The Sphinx slowly lifts his eyes toward her. Cold. Gold. Eternal.
THE SPHINX “They mistake this world for theirs. They mistake power for ownership. Rupert plays king with oil-stained contracts. Haruki dances like a puppet in a paper empire. But both… conspired beneath a broken sun.”
A sudden flicker of a growing darkness. Dollia allows her body to stiffen. She knows the signs. The shift. The shadow.
DOLLIA (sharp) “Don’t let him speak.”
THE SPHINX (smiles, barely) “He does not speak, sister. He waits.Akhenaten… watches through my skin. His rage is not mine.Yet.”
Beat. The Sphinx’s eyes drift sideways. Toward the UOW Youngblood title graphic now tarnished with Oswald Knight’s image. He scoffs.
THE SPHINX (lower now, colder) “I will not acknowledge a thief. That belt has no champion. Only a caretaker… awaiting judgment.”
DOLLIA (half-wistful, half-fearful) “And Sasori?”
THE SPHINX “A wild god with no temple. He dances in the firelight of chaos. But now… he will learn what it means to steal from a god’s mouth.”
Beat. Dollia steps forward. She speaks not to her brother—but to the world watching.
DOLLIA “To Rupert Mudcock… To Haruki Tanaka… You’ve not dealt with men. You’ve meddled with something ancient. You have rewritten the rules of war, and in doing so, you’ve damned yourselves.”
(softens) “You broke a divine rite. You interfered in a coronation. You believed you could humble a king.”
The Sphinx steps forward now, bare feet against cold stone. He doesn’t walk like a man. He moves like inevitability.
THE SPHINX “You did not kill a reign. You birthed a reckoning.”
He turns slowly. Eyes gleam red, but not with rage—with purpose. He speaks now to the one name not yet forgotten.
THE SPHINX (to Sasori) “The AAPW Unified Heavyweight Title… It burns with the red of Ra. You carry my prophecy, heretic. You will die for daring to possess it.”
The moment ends in silence. Not a fade-out. Vanishing. Like light swallowed by an eclipse.
The storm begins before a single word is spoken. The ceiling cracks. The walls hum like they remember war. The shadows tremble as if preparing to kneel.
And in the center of it all, he stands—shirtless, barefoot, carved from obsidian and nightmare. A demigod unraveling at the seams.
Drake Nygma. The Sphinx. Once crowned. Now betrayed.
The air clings to his skin, shuddering, rebelling against the rising tide of something far older than anger.
A guttural sound crawls up his throat, something between a growl and the echo of a desert collapsing into itself. The energy pulses from his chest in violent waves, rippling outward. The furniture explodes into fragments. The glass of a chandelier rains down like diamond shrapnel. Light bulbs burst. A mirror splits in seven directions—none of them show a reflection.
And still he doesn’t speak. He doesn't have to. The silence is screaming.
Dollia feels it before she sees it. The static crawling beneath her skin. The stench of divinity bleeding from his pores.
She doesn’t flinch—not when the armchair combusts, not when the floorboards beneath her heels quake. She’s lived this before. She's lived him before. But it never gets easier. The storm inside him isn’t just rage—it’s history.
She steps forward like a priestess entering the mouth of a volcano. Calm. Barefoot. Adorned in midnight silk, her hair loose around her shoulders like she just woke from prophecy. Her voice is a whisper, but it cuts through chaos like a blade dipped in truth: “Zat’ku-ra. Enka’mu. Taymet-nu’sah. Hequ aat.”
The ancient mantra dances through the air, stitching the cracks in the world closed, thread by thread.
And for a moment... The roar fades. The windows still. The god remembers the man.
Dollia presses her palm gently to his chest—right above the red scar that isn’t a scar at all, but a seal. A binding. A warning. A memory.
“I saw it,” she says softly. “The cage they put you in. The cold metal. The chains soaked in holy oil. The masks. The fire. The way they called you ‘thing’ instead of Drake.”
His body shudders beneath her touch. Not from fear. From restraint.
“You don’t trust authority because once, they tried to own you. To dissect you. And when they couldn’t, they buried the pieces and called it peace.”
Her fingers curl slightly against his skin, grounding him.
“This isn’t about a belt. It never was. It’s about sovereignty. It’s about how Rupert Mudcock and Haruki Tanaka think power comes from paperwork and cameras. But power doesn't wear suits. Power was born with a curse on its tongue and fire behind its eyes.”
She lowers her voice, now speaking to something deeper than the man in front of her.
“You didn’t lose. They cheated the ceremony. They robbed the rite. They placed Oswald Knight on a throne built of interruption. And Sasori—wild little god, creature of smoke and whim—desecrated the moment. He tainted it.”
The Sphinx raises his head slowly. His eyes glow like the dying sun of Thebes.
“He wore red,” The Sphinx murmurs, his voice like tectonic plates grinding beneath a dead city. “Red like Ra.”
His hand flexes, fingers curling into a half-fist as ancient energy coils at his knuckles. “That title… the AAPW Championship… it is older than they understand. It remembers the bloodline. It remembers when men knelt. They wrap it in leather and gold and call it honor. But I see the fire beneath it. And I will take it back.”
“Not to belong. But to correct the heresy.”
Dollia steps back just enough to study his face.
She can feel the fury whispering again. The shadow of Akhenaten, hungry. Endless. But she also sees the will. The man. Her brother. The force that refused to die in cages, the mind that escaped walls, the heart that—despite everything—still beats for purpose.
“Then we begin,” she nods. “No allies. No ceremonies. No compliance. We reclaim what was stolen. And we don’t ask permission.”
She turns from him then, brushing glass from her path with her heel. Her voice trails behind her like a knife wrapped in silk.
“Let them run their companies. Let them count views. You’re not here to sell T-shirts or take selfies in hallways. You are the storm that corrects the lie. And I will see them bow again.”
Behind her, The Sphinx speaks only once more.
“Sasori walks with fire, but I was born in it. And I do not fear the flames. I remember them.”
Then silence. But this silence isn’t peace. It's a prophecy.
[INT. ANCIENT-STYLED PRIVATE RESIDENCE – NIGHT]
The house is a place carved out of time. Stone and obsidian. Incense smoke curling like ancient script. Walls draped in faded cloth. Sculptures of old gods… none of whom smile.
A single candle flickers. Then—
The light explodes. CRACK.
Glass implodes inward. Light bulbs burst with a staccato rhythm. The temperature plummets. The pressure rises. Wind howls inside the house. Books fly. Furniture splits. At the center of the chaos: The Sphinx.
Shirtless. Hands clenched. Muscles straining. Tattoos glowing faintly gold beneath his skin. His roar isn’t loud—it’s low, ancient, and divine. A death rattle of empires.
THE SPHINX (growling, guttural) “They stole what was divine. They defiled the order. They bent reality to crown a jester.”
DOLLIA enters—barefoot, unfazed, moving through the chaos like a ghost. She kneels. Her voice is calm. Not frightened. Sacred.
DOLLIA (whispers) “Al-Ka-Tet. Sa’am Netjer. Tah khefret. Shem-Tu…”
Her hand reaches out—settles over the center of his spine, where the last scar still hums.
DOLLIA (whispers, closer) “Return to the body. Return to now. The throne is still yours.”
The wind comes to a stop. Time bellows out a quiet gasp.
The Sphinx drops to his knees. And collapses.
[INT. SAME RESIDENCE – LATER THAT NIGHT]
The storm has passed. Candles are re-lit. Rain taps against the stone windows.
The Sphinx lies on a low ceremonial bed, draped in linen. Pale. Slick with sweat. Dollia kneels beside him, wet cloth in hand, dabbing his temple. But her eyes are far away. She’s inside his mind.
A memory takes her—
FLASHBACK: THE ANCIENT PRISON. A DESERT CELL.
Chains of sun-baked iron. Sand crusted to flesh. The Sphinx—Drake Nygma—not yet divine. Stripped of power, beaten but never broken. Men in gold and black robes watching from the shadows. His crime? Refusing to kneel.
They burn symbols into his skin. They cut into his language. They try to break him. But they can’t reach the mind.
The eyes stay sharp. The hatred of tyrants was forged here.
BACK TO PRESENT.
Dollia blinks hard. Wipes her eyes.
DOLLIA (softly) “Now I see it, big brother. That’s why you have to control the field. The room. The silence. Because once, they caged your name. And tried to bury your fury.”
She touches the edge of his gold-plated armguard, now cracked.
DOLLIA (sharper, to the air) “Rupert Mudcock. Haruki Tanaka. You think you played politics. But what you did was provoke an ancient storm. And I will warn you once—before the thunder walks into your boardrooms.”
Her voice lowers. Her forehead presses to his.
DOLLIA (whisper) “We will take back what was stolen. No kings. No companies. No heretics. Only judgment.”
She breathes. One more mantra.
“Ma’at returns with vengeance.”
FADE OUT.
[INT. CEREMONIAL BEDROOM – HOURS LATER]
Time crawls.
Candles have melted into halos. Incense curls like breath from the underworld.
Outside, the wind carries whispers of distant storms—but inside: stillness.
The Sphinx has begun to stir. His eyes open. Not golden. Not wrathful. Just… blank.
Empty, wide. Like a newborn’s. He blinks slowly, as if light itself is unfamiliar.
Dollia watches from a low stool nearby. Knees drawn up, barefoot, wrapped in one of his old cloaks. Her face was unreadable.
He turns his head. Seeing her.
THE SPHINX (quiet, hoarse) “...Dollia?”
It’s not the usual voice. No gravel. No echo. Just a soft, uncertain tone.
DOLLIA (softly, calmly) “Yes. I’m here.”
He tries to sit up. Can’t. His body shakes. One hand reaches for her… but stops midway. Looks at his body confused. Fingers twitching.
THE SPHINX (murmurs) “Why... Why does it hurt?”
DOLLIA “Because you tore open the sky again.”
“And it tore back.”
A pause. Then he touches his own chest—childlike. Feels the heartbeat. The breath. The weight of his own body.
THE SPHINX (fragile) “I... I don’t know my name.”
Dollia’s throat tightens. He speaks again, his voice soft, confused.
THE SPHINX “Where are the lions?”
A pause. Maybe seconds long.
DOLLIA (gently) “Sleeping. Like you were.”
THE SPHINX (childlike wonder) “Are they safe?”
She nods, then stands. Crosses to him and kneels by the bed. She doesn’t cradle him—he would not understand that now. But she stays. Steady. Present. Like a guardian in the void.
For hours, he is like this.
He babbles in forgotten dialects. Traces hieroglyphs in the blanket with his fingertip. Sometimes he laughs softly, at nothing. Sometimes he weeps and doesn’t know why. It is not peace. It is regression. An echo of the boy who became the god.
[LATER – STONE BALCONY, NIGHTFALL]
The Sphinx sleeps once more.
Dollia stands alone, hooded in black and gold. A camera device—low-tech and cryptic—is perched on a stone altar.
She records. The message is for both AAPW and UOW.
DOLLIA – MESSAGE TRANSMISSION (Voice low. Measured. But beneath it—a storm held by threads.) “You fed on his rage like pigs at the trough. You dangled gold before his eyes and called it glory. And when he gave you myth—you spat it back with mortal mockery.”
“You crowned clowns. You sanctified cowards. You dared to interrupt divinity mid-judgment.”
She steps closer. Eyes blazing beneath the hood.
“You broke the circle of silence. And in doing so, you have opened the tomb.”
She holds up something:
The cracked gold armguard—once a symbol of restraint. Now a shattered seal.
“Understand this: He does not bleed as you bleed. He does not fall as you fall. His sleep is not death—it is calculation. And his awakening will not be warm.”
“The regression you caused? Is a reset. A remembering.”
Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Your companies mistook a god for an asset. You will now learn what gods do to thieves.”
She ends the recording.
Places the cracked armguard on the balcony rail. The sky splits above her—just once.
Thunder rolls. Quiet. Distant. Like a beast turning in its sleep.
FADE TO BLACK.
The lights are dim, the air thick with incense and electricity. What was once a clean, sterile living room—barely lived in—now lies in quiet ruins. Shattered bulbs. Broken windows. Dust settling over claw-marked walls. The quiet after the storm.
On the floor, half-curled on a woven mat, lies Drake Nygma — The Sphinx — body slack, features loose, not serene but… softened. His breath shallow, eyes fluttering beneath shut lids. The energy around him has calmed, for now.
Dollia kneels nearby, watching. Not frightened. Not surprised. Just… tired. She tucks a blanket over his chest. Her voice is a whisper now, an ancient lullaby not meant for the ears of gods, but for what they used to be, before the temples were built in their names.
"Return to the circle. Return to the stone. Let fire sleep and name be known."
Time passes. The room grows still.
Then, a sound. A whimper. A murmur.
SPHINX (groggy, voice small): "Where is mother…?"
Dollia blinks, the breath catching in her throat. It’s not the Sphinx’s voice. Not the deity. Not the destroyer. It’s Drake. A younger Drake. A boy’s voice, high and hesitant.
He stares at her, confused, wide-eyed— vulnerable.
SPHINX: "You’re not the nurse."
DOLLIA (softly, trying to meet him where he is): "No. I’m Dollia. Your… sister."
SPHINX (squinting, whispering): "You look sad."
She smiles, barely. There’s a weight behind her eyes now, something cracked open in her. She reaches for the remote and clicks the television on, letting it autoplay the last footage it had queued.
The Ronin Rumble.
Drake Nygma—the adult—The Sphinx—standing tall in divine calm amid a war zone of bodies. Silent. Immovable. His hand raised in victory. Smoke and lights. His name chanted by a thousand, no, a million throats.
Young Drake tilts his head. Points.
SPHINX (softly): "Why does that man look like me? He looks… heavy. He looks like… stone."
DOLLIA: "That’s you. That’s your tomorrow."
SPHINX: "But I’m here."
DOLLIA: "Yes. And so is he. You both are. Sometimes... when the storm inside gets too loud, we fall back to where it was quieter. Where we were… smaller. But you’re still here, Drake."
SPHINX (shivering): "The noise hurts."
She kneels beside him again and brushes his curls back with fingers that tremble slightly now.
DOLLIA (whispering): "Then let me speak for you."
A lone camera. Grainy footage. No filters. No glitz. Just Dollia seated in shadow, eyes burning beneath dark lashes, framed by spirals of smoke.
DOLLIA (calm, precise, almost cruel in her clarity): "To Rupert Mudcock. Haruki Tanaka. You believe yourselves to be rivals. You play at war like little boys with toy guns, pretending your battlegrounds matter. But you forgot whose temple you desecrated. You conspired—yes, conspired—without speaking. You broke the sacred geometry of combat. A match was spoiled. A rite spoiled. And in doing so, you summoned something older than both your empires. The Sphinx is not defeated. He is disrespected. And that, I promise you, is a far graver sin. Mr. Knight may clutch the Youngblood Title. But understand this: he holds ash. And as for Saiko Sasori… the red of Ra still glows within that belt. We see it. We feel it. And soon… we will cleanse it. You’ve mistaken divinity for theater. That will be your undoing."
The Light Fades. Somewhere behind the walls, The Sphinx still lies beneath the blanket. Still dreaming. Still watching himself on the screen. Still unsure whether the man in gold and fury is someone he can ever be again.
Interior – The Hidden Home. Candlelight. Soft static hum. Dollia speaks into an old transmitter, her voice intended for those who dare watch or listen.
DOLLIA:”You want answers. Of course you do. That’s what men like Rupert Mudcock and Haruki Tanaka always want. Explanations. Categorization. Control.Let me simplify this for your little filing cabinets of brains:When the vessel that contains divinity is breached— When injustice corrodes the bindings of his logic— When the world cheats the Sphinx out of what is his, He doesn’t lash out like a man. He fractures like a god. This… regression? You think it's a weakness? No. It is what happens when power older than kings, older than bones, burns too hot for mortal flesh. You see a child. I see a reboot. A reset. An echo of memory. When he expends too much energy, when the divine rage cracks open the seal of Ra that I keep bound behind his ribs—he reverts. Back to a time before he remembered the pain. Back to a mind untouched by war, by betrayal, by you. It is the only time his soul gets peace. But don’t get too comfortable. He’s remembering faster every time. Soon, the child will look in the mirror and see the man you betrayed. And when he does? There will be no title belts. No boardroom arguments. No rules left to bend. Only judgment. And it will be biblical.”
The Hidden Home. Rain tapping gently on the windows. Candlelight flickers across stone walls. The Sphinx sleeps, regressed, his breathing shallow but steady. Dollia sits beside an old transmitter, speaking into the void.
DOLLIA (soft, deliberate): “You have broken faith with something older than your flags… Older than your belts…Older than your empires of ego. You took from him— Twice. Not just the gold, but the moment. The rite. The silence owed to a king’s ascension.And now? You’ve awakened something not even I can soothe forever. He will return. Whole. And when he does, you will not be facing a contender. You will be facing consequences.”
She leans closer to the mic. A whisper now—intimate, lethal.
“I suggest you begin preparing altars. Because gods do