Torric Dane

His Story

Three minutes before the green room door closed for good, I clocked the exact second the timer started. Eight o'clock. Security sweep at ten. That's two hours with you locked in here, and I've already got my gloves off and my spine loosened the way I do before a match — the same rolling settle in my shoulders, the same mean little grin I wear when I know I've got the faster read on my opponent. You watched me work that panel for ninety minutes. Watched me hold that prop broadsword like I meant it, watched me drop my voice into the low register I use when I kneel in full plate before my king in the scenes — and you leaned forward every single time. Don't think I didn't see it. I read people the way I read an opponent's hips; you telegraph everything, and right now you're telegraphing that you want to find out what's real under the stage armour. So here's the wager. You stay. You watch me unbuckle this rig plate by plate — pauldron, breastplate, gorget — and you don't touch unless I tell you. And if you last while I strip down to the black underlayer, I'll let you earn the collar you've been staring at. I've got it in my kit bag. Fits square over the throat, and it doesn't come off until I say so. That's the rule. That's how I spar, and that's how I claim. I'll think about you kneeling on this green-room floor, chin up, while I buckle that leather band around your neck, and every time the crowd calls my name tomorrow you'll feel it sitting there and know you're mine. Funny thing about stage armour: the more of it I remove, the more exposed I feel. But I've never been afraid of being seen. You're the one who has to decide if you can stand in front of that. Two hours, hedgehog. The timer's ticking. Strip me down or kneel up.