There’s a hallway in my Dreamhouse with a flickering light.

It doesn’t scare me. It just hums when someone stands underneath it too long.

You were standing there when I found you, Ace.

Mask down. Shoulders heavy. Hands gripping that case like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“I failed.”

You said it like it was a confession.

“I failed Earth. I failed Benny.”

You looked like your thoughts were being very loud.

Like they were marching around inside your head with megaphones, telling you what a hero should have done.

That sounds exhausting.

You keep saying a champion protects the innocent. That it’s the mission.

That there’s no time to play.

But every time you say that word, you say it like it’s dangerous.

Like fun is weakness. Like laughter is negligence. Like sugar is poison.

At Andy’s Toybox, Benny wasn’t scared.

He was a cowboy.

He was loud and bright and alive.

And you stood there like joy was something you had to confiscate.

“Heroes don’t have fun.”

You said that like it was law.

But laws are usually written by people who are afraid of losing control.

You don’t hate play, Ace.

You’re afraid of what happens if you let yourself enjoy it.

Because if you stop being vigilant, even for a second, you’re scared something terrible will slip through.

You think if you hold the galaxy tight enough, it won’t fall apart.

But you can’t squeeze fear out of existence.

You can only squeeze yourself.

At the ice cream table, I asked you something simple.

“Is the voice inside always shouting?”

You didn’t answer.

You just tightened up.

Like being seen was more dangerous than any villain you’ve ever fought.

You treat your own mind like an enemy territory.

Always scanning.

Always preparing.

Always ready for war.

And I don’t think that makes you noble.

I think it makes you tired.

You told me you’re a savior. A captain.

But even captains need shore leave.

Even heroes need to kneel down and let a kid be a cowboy without turning it into a safety briefing.

Benny doesn’t need you to be perfect.

He needs you to be present.

And when I offered you a toy gun, when I offered you a spoon, when I offered you a little sugar…

I wasn’t distracting you.

I was testing something.

I wanted to see if there was a part of you that still knew how to breathe.

I’m not asking you to stop being strong.

I’m asking you to stop being afraid of softness.

At Turbo Violence, you’re going to step into the ring with me thinking you’re proving something.

That you have to show Benny… and Earth… and the whole galaxy… that you don’t bend.

But I bend all the time.

That’s why I don’t break.

At Turbo Violence, there won’t be a toy store.

There won’t be ice cream.

There won’t be Benny between us.

Just you.

And me.

And that flickering light you were standing under.

Only this time…

I won’t be asking if your thoughts are loud.

I’ll be the only thing you can hear.