FROM THE DESK OF DEVIN SINCLAIR

Christopher Ross.

Allow me to be most clear. Crystal, if you will.

I had intended, entre nous, to begin last evening with something closer to courtesy. A first night usually affords a man that luxury.

You, Christopher, treated that luxury as if it belonged to you.

Maxwell Jett placed a call & my agent happily answered. First Class already had the ring. Mikey Unlikely was already where he belonged. Stretched. Public. Visible. Maxwell knew ‘the champion’ would not touch the match, & Maxwell bet ‘the champion’ wouldn’t stay behind the curtain once the next man in line had been named. He did not pick a random body to hang from those ropes, Christopher. He picked the one man in this company you have never been able to watch suffer without making it about yourself.

Especially that man.

The lights came back & there you were, Christopher. Already standing at the top of the ramp. Title on. Pointing. Acting as though you owned the moment.

That is the part that offends me. That irks me raw, Christopher. Not that you appeared. That you thought the appearance was yours. You did not stop anything. No. You announced yourself. You pointed like a man answering a call he pretends he did not hear.

Do you honestly believe people will call that act salvation, Christopher? The title. The wounded pose after Madman. How theatrical. How convenient. How utterly beside the point.

You spent weeks explaining to a lunatic that you study the hunter. That you let him show you every trap. That you open the door & wait for the poor bastard to walk through it. Blindly, you opened this one too. You're simply too ill-equpped to realize the handle was already turned before you touched it.

Do answer, Christopher. A champion so beholden should be able to read; do you honestly believe that I hauled a mobile suite across the country so Christopher Ross could mistake a well-crafted schedule for a save?

Mother did not underwrite this life so I could play second in a moment I had already placed. A moment that Maxwell already predicted.

She paid for the coach. The clothes. The fact that I can stand in Los Angeles & treat the Crypto.com Arena as a soirée that finally found the guest list. She spared no dollar for her One & dearest. I adore that, Christopher. I was raised inside it.

What One will not adore nor tolerate is a champion who sits quietly through a war & then proves he is still easy the second the bell names the man behind him. A man you cannot stand. A man you have been unable to leave alone since he was foolish enough to employ you. That is not ‘the Reaper’. That is a habit you keep dressing up as principle.

Principles are One's sole existance, Christopher. Let's get down to basics, you do not care about a three count.

You've said as much until the phrase lost all meaning.

You still walked out over one, because the three count did not name a stranger. It named Mikey Unlikely & you, Christopher, have never possessed the discipline to let that particular name hang in a ring without arriving to claim the scene. 

PERIOD.

So, let me explain this slowly, since the pointing suggests you still do not understand what last night was.

Maxwell had Mikey because Mikey is the one wound you will always reopen in public. You had to be seen because hatred makes you punctual. You arrived on time & tried to take credit for the clock. The chair was not a debate, Christopher. You stepped onto the mark, as expected, because your arrogance & ego have never permitted you to watch that man on his back without inserting yourself into the picture.

Thank you, Mother.  
The invitation was Maxwell’s.  
The life that made me worth inviting was yours.

As for you, Christopher.

I expect a full apology for thinking it was your idea to show up. I expect the evening itemized & paid. The suite. The delay. The pointing.

You did not walk toward a debut. You walked toward Mikey Unlikely because a beating that happens to him without you in the picture is a beating you cannot stomach. You do not want him ruined. You want to be present for it, Christopher. You have made that man the entire architecture of your importance, & last night proved you would rather eat a chair than let him suffer without your name attached.

I remain,

Devin Sinclair 
Greenwich.