Человек вне времени

[Tytus Rost]

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Tytus Rost stood in the dimly lit locker room, staring into the cracked mirror in front of him. The light above flickered sporadically, casting shadows that danced across his worn face. His reflection stared back at him, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. The once proud and confident warrior, the man who had been feared and revered in rings all around the world, now looked tired. Not just physically, but deep down in his soul. The years had taken their toll on him, and it was painfully obvious.

He ran a hand over his beard, the coarse hairs scratching against his calloused fingers. Tytus had been through wars—real wars—and countless battles in the ring. But this feeling, this overwhelming sense of not belonging, of being out of place, was something new. He couldn’t shake it. For weeks now, he had been on the losing end of match after match, each loss chipping away at the confidence he had spent years building.

Tytus let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. “Что случилось с тобой, Титус?” he muttered to himself in Russian. What happened to you, Tytus? He remembered a time when he walked into any arena and commanded respect when opponents would hesitate just at the thought of facing him. But now, it seemed like every time he stepped into the ring, he was a step too slow, a punch too weak, a moment too late.

He thought back to the days when he was in his prime, when the world was at his feet and every victory was another notch in his belt. He was a force of nature, unstoppable and feared. But those days were long gone, and it seemed like everyone but him had accepted that. Tytus had hoped that his run in Imperial would be the final chapter in a storied career, the capstone that would solidify his legacy. But instead, it had been a string of disappointments, each match tarnishing the image he had worked so hard to create.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as the anger and frustration bubbled up inside him. “Я не могу так продолжать,” he whispered. I cannot keep going like this. He had always prided himself on his resilience, his ability to push through any obstacle, but now, he was beginning to doubt himself. Maybe his best years really were behind him. Perhaps it was time to accept that the world had moved on, and there was no place for a man like him anymore.

This week, he was scheduled to face Logan Sky, a man who was more similar to Tytus than different. Both of them were in the twilight of their careers, both had seen and done it all, and both had been unstoppable forces in their prime. But now, they were relics of a bygone era, clinging to the last remnants of their former glory.

Tytus had heard the whispers, the comments from younger wrestlers who saw him as nothing more than a stepping stone, a washed-up veteran they could make their name off of. It infuriated him, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they might be right. He had lost his edge, and he knew it.

But Logan Sky was different. Logan was a man who, like Tytus, had built his career on being brutal and unrelenting in the ring. There was a certain respect between men like them, forged in the fires of countless battles and hard-earned victories. Logan knew what it was like to feel the years catch up with you, to feel your body betray you when you needed it the most. In some ways, Tytus saw this match as a mirror image of himself. It was as if he was facing his own reflection, a reflection that showed what he had become—a man who was past his prime, desperately trying to hold on to something that was slipping through his fingers.

But Tytus was not ready to give up. Not yet. There was still a fire inside him, a small ember that refused to be extinguished. He had one last push left in him, one last effort to prove to himself and the world that he was still the warrior he used to be. He wasn’t just fighting Logan Sky this week; he was fighting against time, against the creeping doubt that had been gnawing at him for months.

He remembered the conversations he had with Berrick and Katya, how they both encouraged him to keep going, to push through the doubt and fear. Berrick had been blunt, telling him that he still had something left in the tank, that he just needed to dig deep and find it. Katya had been gentler, reminding him of all he had accomplished and how much she believed in him. Their words had given him strength, but now, standing in this locker room, he knew that the real battle was with himself.

Tytus looked into the mirror again, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of determination and uncertainty. “Ты не можешь проиграть, Титус,” he told himself. You cannot lose, Tytus. This match against Logan Sky was about more than just a win or a loss. It was about proving that he still belonged, that he was still the warrior he had always been.

He thought about what Logan Sky must be going through, the doubts and fears that probably mirrored his own. Logan was a veteran, just like Tytus, and he had been around long enough to know how this business worked. They were both fighting against the inevitable, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of their careers before they faded into obscurity. But Tytus knew that only one of them could come out on top, and he was determined to make sure it was him.

“Logan,” Tytus muttered, as if speaking directly to his opponent. “We are both warriors, both men who have given everything to this business. But this week, only one of us will stand tall. I have too much riding on this, too much to prove to myself and to the world. I will not go down without a fight. I will push myself to the limit, and I will show you and everyone else that I still have what it takes.”

He could feel the fire in his belly growing stronger, the ember turning into a flame. This match was his chance to silence the doubts, to prove that he was still the man he had always been. He knew it would not be easy, that Logan would be just as determined to win, but Tytus was ready to give it everything he had.

He stood up straight, his massive frame towering over the small locker room. The flickering light above seemed to stabilize, as if reflecting the newfound resolve in his heart. “One last push,” he said to himself. “One last fight.”

Tytus grabbed his gear and began preparing for his workout. The doubts and fears were still there, but now they were tempered by a fierce determination. He knew that this might be his last chance to prove himself, his last opportunity to show the world that Tytus Rost was not a man to be forgotten.

As he laced up his boots, he thought about what this match meant. It was more than just a contest between two men; it was a battle for his legacy, a fight to keep his place in a world that was quickly moving on without him. He had spent his entire life fighting, and he was not about to give up now.

The arena would soon be filled with the sound of the crowd, the energy in the air electric as the fans waited to see the men and women of IWF. Tytus could almost hear the distant roar, the excitement and anticipation building. He knew that the eyes of the world would soon be on him, that this was his moment to either rise or fall.

He stood in front of the mirror one last time, fully dressed and ready to go. The man staring back at him was different now—still older, still weathered by the years, but with a fire in his eyes that had been missing for too long. This was not just a match; it was his redemption.

“Logan Sky,” he said aloud as if the man could hear him. “When it is all over, you will respect me for the fight I gave you, but until then tovarich, bring me your everything.”

He turned and walked out of the locker room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he made his way to the ring. Although the arena was empty, he could still hear the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step, and Tytus could feel the adrenaline begin pumping through his veins. This was what he lived for, what he had spent his entire life doing.

As he approached the curtain that separated him from the arena, he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. This was it—his last push, his final chance to prove himself. He closed his eyes, picturing the match in his mind, seeing himself standing tall, victorious, with the crowd cheering his name.

And then he stepped through the curtain, ready for one last fight, one last battle to cement his legacy and remind the world that he was a man who would not go quietly into the night.

This was his time. This was his fight. And he was going to give it everything he had.