Chapter 1: The Last Time Is Now

[WrestleWizard]

​

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 2:45 AM ET
LOCATION: The Ritz-Carlton, Toronto - Penthouse Suite
AUTHOR: Cody Rhodes

They say the heaviest thing in the world isn't a dumbbell, or a stone, or even the weight of a nation on your back. It's a crown. For the last year, I have carried this ten pounds of gold and leather everywhere I go. I have smiled. I have signed the autographs. I have been the "quarterback" that this company needed. I kissed the babies and I shook the hands, and I ignored the fact that slowly, piece by piece, the sharks were circling.
Tonight, I stopped swimming. Tonight, I bought the ocean.

I’m sitting here in the dark of this hotel suite. The city of Toronto is asleep, or maybe it’s just lying in stunned silence after what I did. My hands are still trembling slightly—not from adrenaline, not from fear, but from the residual vibration of delivering three Cross Rhodes to the man who once defined this industry.

I need to write this down. I need to justify it to the paper before I can justify it to the face in the mirror tomorrow morning.

7:45 PM - THE INTERVIEW

It started with the headache. The fifteen staples in my forehead from the Royal Rumble are itching. Byron Saxton was asking me standard questions—softballs about "legacy" and "heart." I gave him the answers he wanted. The answers the old Cody would give. "I'm fighting for the fans," "I'm a fighting champion." It tasted like ash in my mouth.

Then the air changed.

When The Rock walked into the frame, the temperature dropped ten degrees. I’ve known Dwayne for years. I’ve wrestled him. But this wasn't Dwayne. This wasn't the "People's Champion." This was the Final Boss. He didn't look at me with malice; he looked at me with appraisal. Like I was a distressed asset he was considering acquiring.

"Walk with me," he said.

I hesitated. The camera caught that hesitation. But in my head, the calculus had already begun. Lesnar is back. Rollins is unstable. Owens wants to kill me. The Bloodline is splintered but dangerous. How long can I survive on "heart"? How long until I'm just another tragedy in a history book?
I followed him.

8:00 PM - THE MERGER

We didn't go to a locker room. We went to an executive office deep in the bowels of the Rogers Centre. Leather chairs, mahogany table, a bottle of Teremana that probably costs more than my first year's downside guarantee. Paul Heyman was there, standing in the shadows, clutching his phone like a lifeline.

Rock didn't scream. He didn't threaten. He poured two glasses.

"You're tired, Cody," he said. It wasn't a question. "I can see it in your eyes. You finished the story. Congratulations. But now you're realizing the sequel is a horror movie."

He laid it out for me. Simple. Brutal. Corporate.

He told me Roman Reigns chose sentiment over sustainability. Roman wanted to be loved by his family more than he wanted to rule the industry. And because of that, Roman is weak. Roman is a liability.

"The Board," Rock said, leaning forward, "needs stability. We need a face that won't break. We need an Undisputed Champion who understands that this isn't a sport, Cody. It's a business. You can keep fighting the current, drowning in your own morals while the wolves eat you alive... or you can build a dam. You can control the water."

He offered me the one thing I haven't had since I returned to WWE: Security.

"Align with me," he said. "And you stay champion forever. We protect the asset. We protect the legacy. We erase Roman, and we build a new Board of Directors. You, me, the Wiseman. Unstoppable."

I thought about my father. The "American Dream." The common man. He fought the power his whole life. And he died without the big one. He died beloved, but he died without the power to change his destiny.

I don't want to be a Dream anymore. I want to be the Reality.

I took the glass. I drank. I sold my soul, and I was surprised by how smooth it went down.

9:30 PM - THE PREPARATION

While the Chamber matches were happening—while bodies were being broken on steel—I was in a private dressing room. No Nightmare logo. No red, white, and blue. Just black.

Putting on the tactical gear felt strange. It was utilitarian. Cold. When I pulled that ballistic mask over my face, the "Cody Rhodes" who kisses babies disappeared. I became an instrument of the Board.

I watched the monitor. I watched Roman run the gauntlet.

I have to give him credit. He fought like a demon. He took everything Solo, Jacob, Strowman, and Moxley threw at him. He was bleeding, broken, gasping for air. The crowd was chanting his name. "Yeet." "Tribal Chief."

It made me sick.

Where were those chants when I was bleeding in Indianapolis? Where was that love when I was defending this title in every city, every night, while Roman sat at home? They turned on me because I was too available. They loved him because he was rare.

Rock was right. The people are fickle. The Board is forever.

11:15 PM - THE EXECUTION

I was under the ring for twenty minutes. The smell of dust, steel, and sweat. I could hear the violence above me. I heard the roar when Roman speared Moxley through the barbed wire. I heard the silence when Rock took the mic.

"I found the one man who hates you as much as I do."

That was my cue.

I slid out. The crowd didn't see me. Roman was on his knees, a broken king in a ruined kingdom.

The low blow wasn't honorable. It wasn't "dashing." It was necessary. It was efficient.

When I took off the mask... that sound. I will never forget that sound. 50,000 people didn't boo. They gasped. It was the sound of air leaving the room. It was the sound of childhoods dying.

I looked at Roman. He looked up at me, one eye swollen shut, blood matting his beard. He didn't look angry. He looked... confused.

"Why?" he mouthed.

I didn't answer him. I didn't owe him an answer. I grabbed him. Cross Rhodes.

I felt the vertebrae shift.

Rock was laughing on the stage. A deep, rich laugh. I picked Roman up again. Cross Rhodes.

This is for the years you held the title hostage. This is for the spotlight you hogged.

I picked him up a third time. Cross Rhodes.

This is for making me choose between being a hero and being a champion.

When the ref counted three, I didn't feel remorse. I felt light. The burden was gone. I stood up, and I saw Paul Heyman nodding at me. I saw The Rock clapping. I looked at the crowd, and I saw hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred.

Good. Let them hate. Hate buys tickets. Hate drives engagement. Hate is sustainable.

1:00 AM - THE DEPARTURE

Walking backstage was a gauntlet of its own.

Jey Uso was standing near the curtain. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me like I was a stranger. Seth Rollins was being checked by medics on a gurney. He laughed. He actually laughed. "Welcome to the dark side, Rhodes," he wheezed.

I got into the black SUV with Rock and Paul. We didn't speak for the first ten minutes.

Rock finally broke the silence. "Business just went up, gentlemen."

Paul handed me a water. "My Tribal Chief," he said to Rock. Then he looked at me. "Mr. Rhodes... the Undisputed Future."

It’s a new title. A new designation.

2:45 AM - THE MIRROR

So here I am. The suit is hung up. The title is sitting on the desk, gleaming under the hotel lamp.

I’m looking at my reflection. The scar on my pec is still there. The staples in my head are still there. But the eyes are different.

I know what they will call me tomorrow. Traitor. Sellout. Corporate Cody.

Let them.

My father spent his life trying to reach the top of the mountain, relying on the love of the people to carry him. I realized tonight that the love of the people is a variable I can't control.

But The Rock? The Board? The Machine? That is a constant.

I kept the title. I secured my future. I ensured that the Rhodes name will be at the head of the table for the next decade, not just the next month.
I didn't sell out, Dad. I bought in.

Time to sleep. I have a photoshoot for the new "Board of Directors" merch at 8:00 AM.

Business is booming.

- C.R.​

​

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED: ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2025 AUTOPSY​

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 4:15 AM ET
LOCATION: The Hotel Bar, Toronto (Corner Booth, 3rd Coffee)
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard
I have been doing this for twenty-two years. I remember where I was when the glass shattered for the last time at WrestleMania 19. I remember the silence when the Streak ended. I remember the collective gasp when Seth Rollins swung the chair into Roman’s back in 2014.

But tonight? Tonight sits differently in my stomach.

Usually, after a show of this magnitude, the hotel bar is buzzing. Fans are chanting, debating star ratings, arguing about botches. Tonight, the lobby of the Ritz is quiet. It’s a funeral parlor quiet. It’s the silence of 50,000 people trying to process a betrayal they never saw coming, orchestrated by a man they trusted implicitly.

I’m on my third cup of black coffee, trying to type this out before the adrenaline crash hits, and I keep deleting sentences. How do you quantify the death of a hero? How do you explain that the "American Nightmare" didn't just turn heel—he sold out?

Let’s back up. Because before the sky fell, we watched some damn good wrestling.

THE WOMEN: IRON AND STEEL​

If tonight is remembered for the ending, it should be respected for the beginning. Bianca Belair and Stephanie Vaquer didn't just wrestle a match; they fought a war of attrition. We talk a lot about "storytelling" in this business, but seeing the EST go 38 minutes—surviving the insanity of Liv Morgan (who was terrifyingly unhinged tonight), the arrogance of Tessa Blanchard, and the desperate dynastic clawing of Charlotte Flair—was a masterclass.

The "Tower of Doom" spot will be on highlight reels for a decade, but the moment that stuck with me was the finish. Bianca didn’t win with a flash pin. She didn't win with a fluke. She hit the K.O.D., realized it wasn't enough to keep Vaquer down, and hit it again. That’s the kind of psychology we miss sometimes. And Rhea Ripley? Watching from that skybox like a Bond villain? Perfect. That stare-down was money.

THE MEN: THE PASSING OF THE TORCH (FORCEFULLY)​

Then came the meat grinder. The Men's Chamber was chaotic, violent, and necessary.

We need to talk about Bron Breakker. Tonight was his graduation ceremony. I’ve been critical of his push in the past, feeling it was too much, too soon. I was wrong. Watching him stare down Brock Lesnar—not with fear, but with hunger—was chilling. And then he did it. He pinned the Beast. Clean. In the middle. That wasn't just a pinfall; that was a transfer of power. Lesnar destroying him afterward was predictable, but it doesn't erase the three count. Breakker is a made man.

And Randy Orton. The Viper. Twenty-plus years in, and he moves with a smoothness that defies biology. Him winning was the right call. The history with Cody (which now takes on a horrifying new context) is too rich to ignore. But the subplot of CM Punk returning to take out Rollins? That’s the X-factor. Punk vs. Rollins is going to be a blood feud, but right now, it feels like a side dish to the main course.

THE GAUNTLET: THE PASSION OF THE ROMAN​

Then... the main event.

I’ve spent years criticizing Roman Reigns. during the "Big Dog" era, I hated the forced push. During the "Bloodline" era, I grew tired of the interference. But tonight? Tonight, Roman Reigns was the greatest babyface on the planet.

The Rock designed this to be an execution, but Roman turned it into a martyrdom.

• Solo Sikoa: Roman fighting his own blood, the man who usurped his seat at the table. You could feel the heartbreak in every strike.
• Jacob Fatu: A monster. Roman surviving him was a miracle of selling.
• Braun Strowman: A callback to their classic rivalry. Choking him out was poetic.
• Jon Moxley: This is where it got real. When Moxley came out with the barbed wire, the air left the building. Seeing Roman spear him through the wire? That wasn't wrestling. That was sacrifice.

By the time Roman was kneeling in the center of the ring, bleeding from a dozen cuts, he wasn't the Tribal Chief anymore. He was just a man refusing to die. The crowd loved him. I loved him. We all believed he had done the impossible.

THE BETRAYAL: THE NIGHTMARE REALIZED​

And then the lights didn't go out. The music didn't hit. Just a man in a mask.

When Cody Rhodes revealed his face, I didn't write anything in my notebook for five minutes.

Think about the narrative arc here. Cody Rhodes returned to WWE to "finish the story." He was the antithesis of the corporate machine. He was the people's choice. He fought through a torn pectoral. He fought through the heartache of WrestleMania 39. He finally won the big one.

And what did he do with it?

He realized that being the "People's Champion" is hard. He realized that the fans turn on you (look at how they cheered Roman tonight). So he took the easy way out. He aligned with The Rock. He aligned with the Board.

The visual of Cody, Rock, and Heyman standing over Roman... it’s the nWo forming at Bash at the Beach '96. It’s Austin shaking Vince’s hand at WrestleMania X-Seven. It’s Rollins betraying the Shield. But it somehow feels worse.

Because Cody didn't do it out of anger. He did it out of business.

That interview he gave afterward? The smirk? The "Undisputed Future"? It’s terrifying because it makes sense. Cody looked at Roman—battered, broken, relying on the love of the crowd—and decided he didn't want that life. He chose the suit over the sword.

THE ROAD TO LAS VEGAS​

So, where does this leave us for WrestleMania 41?

We are looking at Roman Reigns vs. The Rock under "Bloodline Rules." But now, Roman is the underdog. Roman is the one fighting the system. It’s the ultimate inversion of his character arc.

And Cody Rhodes vs. Randy Orton? The Mentor vs. The Student. But now, the Student is the tyrant. Randy Orton, the man who made a career out of killing legends, is now the only hope to save the title from being held hostage in a boardroom.

FINAL THOUGHTS​

I’m exhausted. My throat hurts from gasping. My heart hurts for the kid in the front row I saw crying when Cody hit that third Cross Rhodes.

But god help me, I can’t wait for Raw on Monday night.

They broke our hearts tonight. They took the white-meat babyface we invested three years in and turned him into a corporate shill. They took the villain we spent three years hating and turned him into a sympathetic warrior.

They manipulated us. They played us. And it was absolute perfection.

Wrestling is at its best when it blurs the lines between reality and fiction. Tonight, Cody Rhodes didn't just turn heel on Roman Reigns. He turned heel on the idea of Cody Rhodes. He killed the Dream to survive the Reality.

Twenty-two years I've been watching this. And tonight, I feel like I'm seeing it for the first time again.

Rating: A+ (and a broken heart)

- WW

 

[WrestleWizard]

​

March 3rd, 2025: The Liquidation of Legacy​

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE DIRECTOR

DATE: March 1 - 3, 2025
TIME: 11:55:00 PM ET
LOCATION: SUV post Chamber PLE, Jet, "The Iron Paradise" Mobile Outpost (Undisclosed Warehouse, Chicago Suburbs)
AUTHOR: The Rock (The Final Boss)​

SATURDAY NIGHT - POST-CHAMBER (THE LIQUIDATION)

I sat in the back of the SUV as we pulled away from the Rogers Centre. The windows were tinted black, impenetrable, just like the Board. Paul was hyperventilating in the front seat, scrolling through his phone, terrified of the death threats. He still has that manager mindset—he worries about the talent's safety.

I poured a glass of Teremana. Neat. My hand didn't shake. Why would it?

I looked at Cody across the aisle. He was staring out the window at the Toronto skyline, watching the CN Tower fade into the distance. He wasn't crying. He wasn't smiling. He was calculating. That’s when I knew the investment was sound. Roman Reigns... I love him. He’s family. But Roman operates on mana. He operates on spirit. Spirit doesn't satisfy shareholders. Spirit doesn't secure a ten-year media rights deal.

When I saw Roman bleeding in that ring, looking up at me like a wounded dog waiting for a treat, I didn't feel pity. I felt clarity. It was time to put the old dog down. The Bloodline had become a liability. It was messy. It was emotional.

Cody Rhodes is clean. He is a spreadsheet in human form. And tonight, we balanced the books.

SUNDAY - THE MERGER (AIRSPACE)

We flew directly to Chicago on the TKO jet. No commercial flights. The Board doesn't wait in TSA lines.

I spent the flight reviewing the Q1 projections with the marketing team. We’re pivoting the "Cody Rhodes" brand. No more "Nightmare." Nightmares are scary; they’re unpredictable. We are rebranding him as "The Standard." "The Undisputed Future."

Cody sat across from me, reviewing the script for Chicago.

"They're going to burn the merchandise, Dwayne," he said.

"Good," I replied. "Then they'll have to buy the new stuff to burn that too. Fire requires fuel, Cody. We sell the fuel."

He smirked. The boy gets it. He realized that being the "People's Champion" is a thankless job. I did it for years. I raised the eyebrow, I threw the elbow, I let them smell what I was cooking. And the moment I left to conquer Hollywood? They turned. They called me a sellout.

You don't sell out. You buy in.

MONDAY MORNING - CHICAGO (THE WINDY CITY)

I hate this city. It’s cold. It’s bitter. It’s the city that thinks suffering is a personality trait. They worship CM Punk because he complains. They worship Roman Reigns because he suffers.

I am in the gym—my mobile Iron Paradise. 45,000 pounds of steel shipped ahead of me. I am clanging and banging while the city freezes outside.

Tonight is the Town Hall. I’ve instructed production to cut the pyro. No fireworks. No celebration. A board meeting doesn't have fireworks; it has an agenda.

I’m going to go out there, and I’m going to look at those 18,000 freezing, miserable marks, and I’m going to tell them exactly what they are: Assets. And then I’m going to hand Cody Rhodes a Rolex that costs more than their mortgages.

It’s not about heat. Heat is for wrestlers.
This is about power. And the Final Boss always holds the controller.

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 11:47 AM CT
LOCATION: The Peninsula Chicago - The Grand Suite (Overlooking the Magnificent Mile)
AUTHOR: Cody Rhodes
​

The wind off Lake Michigan is relentless today. It hits the glass of this penthouse suite with a violence that feels personal. I’m standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the Magnificent Mile. From thirty stories up, the people are just ants huddled in their coats, fighting against the bitter cold, rushing to jobs they hate to pay for lives they can barely afford.

Chicago. The city of broad shoulders. The city of "Hard Times."

My father loved this town. He loved the grit of it. He loved the way the people here wore their misery like a badge of honor. He would drive his Cadillac through the snow, bleeding from his forehead, just to shake their hands and tell them he was one of them.

I press my hand against the cold glass.

I am not one of them.

I spent fifteen years trying to be. I spent fifteen years driving the rental cars, sleeping in the Motel 6s, wrestling in high school gyms with no heating, just to prove I had the "Rhodes grit." I let my pectoral muscle tear off the bone and wrestled a Hell in a Cell match just so they would respect me. And they did. For a moment.

But respect doesn't pay for legacy. Respect doesn't secure the future.

I turn away from the window. The suite is silent. The air is filtered, scented with white tea and thyme. This is what The Rock meant by "The High Table." It’s not just power; it’s insulation. It’s a barrier between you and the wind.

I walk to the vanity mirror. I unbutton my shirt and look at the scar on my chest. It’s ugly. Jagged. A roadmap of the pain I endured for them. For the fans. And what did they do when Roman Reigns returned? Did they stay loyal? No. They split. They wavered. They started chanting "We Want Roman."

They wanted the tragedy. They didn't want the happy ending; they wanted the martyr.

I refuse to be a martyr.

My suit for tonight is hanging on the valet stand. Midnight blue. Italian wool. Bespoke. It cost $12,000. There are no sequins. No polka dots. No homages to the past. The "American Nightmare" logo—the skull with the flag—is gone. That logo was for a rebel. I am not a rebel anymore. I am the regime.

My phone buzzes on the marble countertop. It’s Paul Heyman.

"The script is finalized. Dwayne made some... adjustments. He wants you to lean into the 'saving Dusty' angle. He wants you to say Dusty died broke in spirit. It’s heavy, Cody. It cuts deep. Are you sure you can say it?"

I stare at the phone. I can feel the ghost of my father in the room. I can hear his lisp, his passion. Cody, baby, you gotta be the people's champion.

I pick up the phone and type back instantly.

"I’m not just going to say it, Paul. I’m going to believe it."

Because it is the truth. The fans think I betrayed the "American Dream." They don't understand that I’m the only one who truly honored it. Dad played the game by the rules—their rules—and the game broke him. He died a legend, but he died without the keys to the kingdom. He died an employee.

I changed the rules. I didn't just climb the ladder; I bought the building the ladder stands in. I traded the love of the fickle masses for the security of the Board.

Tonight, 18,000 people at the Allstate Arena are going to scream at me. They are going to pour every ounce of their Midwestern frustration onto me. They will call me a traitor. They will call me a sellout.

And I am going to stand there, check the time on the gold Rolex Dwayne gave me—a watch that ticks with the precision of a Swiss bank account—and I am going to smile.

Let them hate. Hate is sustainable energy. Love burns out. Hate buys tickets to see you lose.

Business is about to pick up.

JOURNAL ENTRY: THE SUNDAY MOURNING (THE HANGOVER OF HOPE)

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 2:15 PM ET
LOCATION: The Ritz-Carlton Lobby Bar, Toronto (Post-Checkout Purgatory)
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard
​

Sunday in Toronto is usually a day of recovery. After a major Pay-Per-View, the city normally hums with that specific post-wrestling buzz—fans in faction shirts spotting each other on the street, the nod of acknowledgment, the overhearing of "Did you see that spot?" in coffee lines.

Today, the city feels like it’s nursing a collective concussion.

I woke up at 11:00 AM, blowing past the late checkout time, my head pounding not from alcohol, but from the sheer sensory overload of the night before. I dragged myself down to the hotel breakfast buffet, and it was a surreal scene. The place was packed with fans—black hoodies, replica belts, the works. But it was dead silent. Usually, this is where the debates happen. Was the main event 5 stars? Did the right guy win?

Today? People were staring into their scrambled eggs like they’d just received a terminal diagnosis. A guy three tables over was wearing an "American Nightmare" track jacket. He had the zipper pulled all the way up, staring blankly at his phone, doomscrolling Twitter. I watched him physically wince every few seconds. I knew exactly what he was seeing. The memes. The "Corporate Cody" hashtags. The betrayal framed in 4K resolution.

I spent the afternoon walking aimlessly down Yonge Street, just trying to process the shift in reality. The wind was biting, grey, and miserable—pathetic fallacy at its finest. I stopped at a sports bar near the Rogers Centre to grab a burger and write my column. The replay of the Elimination Chamber was playing on the big screen above the bar.

I couldn't look away. Watching it a second time, removed from the shock of the live arena, made it worse. It made it clearer. You could see the nuances I missed in the fervor of the moment. The way Cody didn't look angry when he slid into the ring—he looked efficient. The way Paul Heyman didn't look surprised—he looked relieved. It wasn't a crime of passion; it was a premeditated murder of a character we loved.

I met up with a few other journo friends for an early dinner. Usually, we argue about booking. Today, we just sat there, nursing beers.

"It's genius," Mike from the Torch said, shaking his head. "It's the most evil thing I've ever seen."

"It's suicide," Sarah from Fightful countered. "They killed the biggest merch mover they have. Kids were crying, Mike. Not 'wrestling crying.' Real crying."

I stayed up late in my new, cheaper hotel room near the airport (the Ritz rates were only for show nights), refreshing my feed. The anger wasn't subsiding. It was calcifying. Fans weren't just mad; they were organizing. They were coordinating chants for Raw in Chicago. They were talking about turning their backs.

I went to sleep around 3 AM, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I had wasted twenty-two years investing emotionally in a carny soap opera that just mocked me for caring.

And then I realized... I booked a flight to Chicago for 9 AM. I'm going. I have to go. I have to see the body.

JOURNAL ENTRY: THE MIGRATION OF THE BROKEN HEARTED

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 9:30 AM CT
LOCATION: Air Canada Flight 732 (Toronto to Chicago) -> O'Hare International
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard​

I barely slept. My alarm went off at 6:00 AM, piercing through the fog of a restless, three-hour nap. The hotel room felt cold, impersonal—a fitting setting for the mood hanging over the entire wrestling community. I packed my bag in silence, throwing in my laptop and a portable charger, the essential tools for documenting a funeral. The Uber ride to Toronto Pearson was quiet; the driver tried to make small talk about the weather, but I just stared out the rain-streaked window. Even the sky looked like it was mourning the death of babyface wrestling.

The flight from Toronto to Chicago is short—barely ninety minutes in the air—but this morning, it felt like a prison transport.

Walking through Terminal 1, you could spot the tribe immediately. We were a distinct demographic amidst the business travelers in suits and families heading on vacation. We were the "Travelling Circus," the die-hards who follow the caravan from city to city. Usually, this migration is loud. It’s boisterous. It’s filled with "Too Sweet" gestures and obscure faction signs thrown across security lines. Today? It was a procession of ghosts.

I boarded Air Canada Flight 732 to O'Hare and found my seat in 14C. This entire plane is essentially a charter for the grieving. The cabin pressure feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the collective sigh of a fanbase that got played. To my left is a guy I recognize from the hotel bar last night—a "We Want Cody" movement leader who spent thousands on travel last year. He’s wearing the shirt, but he’s slumped against the window, forehead resting on the glass, looking like he just found out Santa Claus isn’t real and the Easter Bunny is an IRS auditor. He hasn't moved since takeoff.

Two rows ahead, a girl with purple hair—clearly a dyed-in-the-wool "Cody Crybaby"—is scrolling through TikTok with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, her thumb swiping aggressively as if trying to erase the last 24 hours. I watch her pause on a video of Cody raising Roman's arm, her reflection in the iPad screen showing a mix of confusion and rage.

I connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi, which cost me $25 (highway robbery, even for corporate gouging), because I have a morbid need to see the fallout. It’s worse than I thought. It’s not just anger; it’s a digital riot. Twitter (X) isn't a discussion forum today; it’s a war zone with no Geneva Convention.

Twitter (X) Status:

• Trending #1: #TraitorCody
• Trending #2: #WeWantRoman
• Trending #3: #DieRockyDie (A throwback hashtag that The Rock is going to absolutely love).

The discourse has shifted overnight. The logic gaps aren't being debated; the character is being assassinated. The same accounts that were threatening to riot if Cody didn't finish the story are now posting videos of themselves burning his merchandise. I see a clip with 2 million views of a guy in his garage, weeping openly, using video editing software to digitally cut the "American Nightmare" tattoo off his arm. The caption reads: "The Dream is Dead. Long Live the Chief." It’s melodramatic, sure, but it captures the zeitgeist. We didn't just lose a champion; we lost our proxy. Cody was us. He was the fan who made it. And he just looked at us, shrugged, and took a check from the TKO Board.

It’s fascinating, really. In twenty-two years covering this industry, I’ve seen turns. I’ve seen Austin join McMahon. I’ve seen Hogan join the Outsiders. But this? This feels personal. Cody invited us into his life. He made us part of the "family." He made us believe that we were the reason he came back. And then, he looked at us, shrugged, and took a seat on the board of directors.

I plug in my headphones and listen to a podcast while we descend into O'Hare. The host, usually a calm analyst, is screaming—literally screaming—about the "logic gaps." He’s missing the point entirely. The logic is perfect. It’s too perfect. That’s why it hurts. It’s the knife twisting in the wound because we handed him the knife.

We land at O'Hare, the wheels touching down with a jolt that snaps the cabin out of its collective trance. As we deplane, the silence finally breaks, replaced by a nervous, buzzing energy. I see a group of fans waiting at the gate for the next flight, phones out, eyes wide. One of them shouts to a guy on our plane wearing a blood-red Bloodline shirt.

"Did you see the news? Roman’s out of the hospital. He’s been spotted in Chicago."

The ripple effect is instant. The air in the jet bridge changes from somber to electric. We aren't just going to a show anymore; we are going to an execution. We are heading to the Allstate Arena tonight. Chicago. The most smarky, ruthless, unforgiving crowd on the planet.

If Cody Rhodes thinks he can walk into that building tonight and just "cut a promo," he’s delusional. They are going to eat him alive.

And God help me, after twenty-two years of being worked, swerved, and heartbroken, I can't wait to watch the carnage.

 

[WrestleWizard]

​

IV. THE PREPARATION: ARCHITECTS OF THE TURN​

DATE: March 3, 2025
LOCATION: Allstate Arena - Restricted Access Zones​

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THE ARCHITECT (THE ROCK POV)​

TIME: 3:30 PM CT
LOCATION: The Iron Paradise (Loading Dock B - Mobile Unit)

The iron speaks to me in the language of conquest.

Each clang of the weights hitting the rack is a declaration of war, echoing through the cavernous loading dock like artillery fire across a battlefield I already own. This isn't just a gym—it's a statement carved from 45,000 pounds of custom-forged steel, shipped overnight from my Miami compound on flatbeds that cost more than most people make in a year. The crew reassembled it in six hours, bolting perfection together in the freezing draft of a Chicago loading dock while I watched them work, my shadow stretching long across the concrete like a prophecy written in darkness.

The air in here bites. It's a fusion of sub-zero wind knifing under the bay doors, the metallic tang of cold steel, and the primal scent of my own sweat—expensive, organic, fed by a diet that costs $1,200 a day. The local union guys watch from a safe distance, huddled in their high-vis vests like refugees observing a natural disaster. Their eyes dart away when I glance in their direction. They shuffle their feet. They whisper.

Good.

They should be afraid. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to make history bend its knee.

I'm working through my fifth set of 80-pound dumbbell curls. Slow. Controlled. Each repetition is a meditation. With every contraction, I visualize the landscape of this company—the topography of an empire I've spent eighteen months quietly acquiring. The veins in my bicep bulge and twist like rivers carved into stone, mapping out territories I now control: merchandising, licensing, talent contracts, media rights. Each vein is a revenue stream. Each drop of sweat is equity.

I don't lift for vanity anymore. Those days died sometime around 2015. I lift for armor. I lift to ensure that when I walk into that ring tonight, I am not just a man—I am a monument. Immovable. Undeniable. A physical manifestation of power so absolute that their hatred becomes irrelevant.

Brian Gewirtz stands by the weight rack, clutching his iPad like it contains nuclear launch codes. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cold gnawing at us both. He's nervous—he's always nervous when we're about to shift the tectonic plates of this business. His eyes keep darting to his phone, watching the real-time sentiment analysis tick upward in shades of crimson. The algorithms are screaming. The social media metrics look like a stock market crash. Death threats per minute: 47. Trending hashtags calling for my death: 12.

Beautiful.

"Dwayne," he says, his voice fighting the acoustics of the warehouse, competing with the distant sound of riggers setting up the ring. "Security is... they're concerned. The threat level just moved from 'Elevated' to 'Severe.' They're saying the online chatter is violent. Really violent. They want to double the detail at the ramp. Mark—he wants to install glass shields around the ringside barrier. Like a boxing match. Plexiglass between us and them."

I drop the weights.

The sound explodes through the space like a bomb detonating. A production assistant three bays over jumps so hard he drops his clipboard, the clatter mixing with the echo of 160 pounds of iron hitting the rubber mat. The sound reverberates off the corrugated metal walls, a punctuation mark on Brian's anxiety.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with a towel that costs more than Brian's car payment. The Egyptian cotton drinks the moisture. I turn slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang between us like a noose. I want him to feel the weight of what I'm about to say.

"Let them be violent, Brian."

My voice is low, rumbling from somewhere deep in my chest—the same place where I keep the parts of myself that still remember being hungry, being broke, being told I'd never make it. Those parts fuel everything now.

"Violence means they care. Violence means we've touched something real in them. Apathy is the enemy. I don't care if they want to kill us, as long as they buy a ticket to try." I step closer to him. He doesn't step back, but I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Glass shields? Absolutely not. I want them to smell us. I want them to feel the heat coming off our bodies. I want them close enough to see the contempt in my eyes when I look at them. Fear is good for business, Brian. But distance? Distance breeds indifference."

I walk to the industrial cooler, my bare feet slapping against the cold concrete. I grab a ZOA energy drink—my energy drink, my company, my empire expanding in real-time. The hiss of the can opening is sharp, cutting through the ambient noise of the arena being prepared for slaughter.

"Where is Cody?"

Brian scrolls through the run sheet on his iPad, his finger trembling slightly. "He's in his bus. Hasn't come out since we arrived at 2 PM. He requested total isolation. No visitors. Not even Brandi. Security said he has the blinds drawn. Hasn't eaten. One of the catering staff tried to bring him food—he didn't answer the door."

A smile spreads across my face. It's not warm. It's the smile of a shark that's just scented blood in the water—cold, efficient, evolutionary.

"He's method. I like that."

I picture him in there, sitting in the darkness of that bus, staring at the suit I had custom-made for him. Midnight blue. The color of deep water where things drown. He's mourning the death of the 'American Nightmare.' Let him mourn. Let him sit shiva for the hero he used to be. He needs to bury that boy deep—six feet under concrete and rebar—so the man can emerge. The man who will do business.

That boy... that 'dream' he sold them... was weak. Beautiful, but weak. Poetry doesn't pay. Dreams don't compound interest. The man who walks out tonight needs to be iron disguised as flesh.

I walk over to the full-length mirror I had them install. The lighting is harsh, industrial, unflattering—the kind of light that reveals every flaw. But I see none. I see the Final Boss staring back at me. Fifty-three years old and I look like I could still main event WrestleMania for the next decade. Because I can. Because I will.

I'm not playing a character tonight. There is no performance here. I'm just turning the volume up on the truth.

"Tell production to kill the pyro," I command, not looking away from my own reflection. I'm studying myself, making sure every detail is perfect. "I don't want a single spark. No fireworks. No celebration. No flames, no smoke, no sparklers. We aren't here to party. We aren't here to entertain them like dancing monkeys begging for applause."

I turn to face Brian. He's typing frantically into his iPad.

"We're here to foreclose on their childhoods. Silence is the new soundtrack, Brian. Make sure they hear it. Make sure they feel the absence of joy. I want them to understand that the fairy tale is over. The theme park is closed. This is a boardroom now, and they're just shareholders who forgot they can be liquidated."

Brian nods, still typing. "Understood. I'll relay to Kevin and the production truck. No pyro. No music cues. Just—"

"Just the sound of their hearts breaking," I finish for him. "That's the only soundtrack we need."

THE ASSET (CODY RHODES POV)​

TIME: 6:45 PM CT
LOCATION: The Nightmare Bus (Parked in the bowels of the arena)

The suit hangs on the door like an indictment.

Midnight blue—the color of deep water where drowned things settle. It sways slightly as technicians and riggers walk past outside, their footsteps heavy on the concrete. The fabric catches the dim, amber light filtering through the tinted windows of the bus, making it shimmer like oil on water. It looks less like clothing and more like a burial shroud. A ceremonial garment for the execution of everything I used to be.

I've been sitting in this bus for four hours and forty-five minutes.

The engine hums beneath me, a constant low-frequency vibration that usually soothes me on long drives between towns. Today it feels like anxiety given mechanical form. It feels like a countdown ticking in my bones. I haven't turned on the TV. I haven't looked at my phone—I powered it off at 3:00 PM and shoved it in a drawer. I've just been sitting here in the half-light, staring at that suit, knowing that once I put it on, I can never take it off.

The person who puts on that suit will not be the person who takes it off tonight. That person will be someone new. Someone harder. Someone necessary.

My mind keeps drifting back. It won't stay in the present. It circles like a vulture around the moment this all became real.

2:00 PM. The arrival.

The black Escalade pulled into the underground lot, gliding past the barricades where the die-hards have been waiting since dawn in the freezing Chicago cold. I saw them through the tinted window—shapeless bundles of humanity wrapped in sleeping bags and desperation, clutching signs and replica belts like talismans that might ward off the inevitable.

There was a kid near the front. Maybe eight years old. Too young to be out here in this cold, but his father—gaunt, tired, wearing a Stone Cold shirt from 1998—had brought him anyway. The kid was shivering in a thin jacket, his nose running, his cheeks red and raw. He was wearing my weight belt. The white one with the gold letters. My merch. His treasure.

The car slowed at the security checkpoint. The kid saw the vehicle. His eyes went wide with hope—that desperate, irrational hope that only children possess. He didn't know who was inside for sure, but he hoped. God, how he hoped.

He waved at the tinted window, his small hand red from the cold, his face transforming with joy at the mere possibility that I might be inside.

I sat in the darkness of the backseat, five feet away from him, separated by glass and the death of innocence.

I didn't wave back.

I sat perfectly still, watching him. Studying the exact moment hope dies in a child's eyes—because he'd find out later, scrolling through Twitter with his father, that I was in that car. That I saw him. That I didn't acknowledge him.

It felt like choking a puppy with my bare hands.

"Don't stop," I whispered to the driver. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from underwater. "Just drive."

The SUV accelerated. In the side mirror, I watched the kid's arm slowly lower. His father put a hand on his shoulder. They both understood, in that moment, that something had changed in the world.

4:00 PM. The phone call.

Brandi called. I almost didn't answer, but muscle memory made my hand pick up before my brain could stop it.

Her voice was tight. Strained. The voice she uses when she's trying very hard not to cry, not to scream, not to say the things that can never be unsaid.

"Cody... are you sure about this?"

The question hung in the air between us, transmitted through satellites, crossing the distance between the arena and whatever hotel room she was in with Liberty. Our daughter. Our three-year-old daughter who thinks her daddy is a superhero.

"Yes," I said. The word felt like swallowing glass.

"You can't undo this." Her voice cracked. I heard her take a breath, steadying herself. "Once you put that suit on, you're not Dusty's kid anymore. You're The Rock's dream. You're everything you swore you wouldn't become. Everything you promised me—promised us—you'd never be."

Silence. Just the sound of her breathing. Then, quieter: "Think about Liberty. What do we tell her when they boo her father? What do we say when she asks why everyone hates daddy?"

That stung. It burned like acid poured directly into an open wound. But she's right. She's always right. That's what I love about her. That's what makes this hurt.

And that's exactly why I have to do it.

"We tell her daddy made sure she never has to worry about money," I said, my voice harder than I intended. "We tell her daddy learned from his father's mistakes. We tell her that love doesn't pay the mortgage, Brandi. That dreams don't fund college tuition. That being beloved and being broke are not mutually exclusive, but I'll be damned if I let our daughter learn that lesson the way I did."

She was quiet for a long time. Then: "You sound like him. Like Dwayne."

"Good," I said. "That means it's working."

She hung up. She didn't say goodbye. Just a click, and then silence.

I sat holding the phone for twenty minutes after that, staring at the blank screen.

6:45 PM. The transformation.

It's time.

I stand up from the leather couch. My joints pop—knees, lower back, shoulders. My body hurts, but not from tonight's match. I haven't wrestled yet. This is the accumulated damage of a thousand matches, ten thousand bumps, the relentless grind of the road manifesting as phantom aches that never quite go away. My lower back carries the worst of it—a dull, constant reminder that this body is not immortal, that every choice has a cost.

But the mental toll is heavier. The mental toll is crushing.

I take off the hoodie. The "Do The Work" hoodie—black, worn soft from hundreds of wearings, stained with the honest sweat of travel and training. It smells like home. It smells like the gym at 5 AM. It smells like the last three years of grinding, of building something pure, of actually believing I could be different.

I fold it neatly. I smooth out the wrinkles with my palms, honoring it one last time the way you'd prepare a body for burial.

And then I place it in the trash can.

The symbolism isn't lost on me. I'm not an idiot. I know what I'm doing. This is theater. This is ritual. This is the death of one identity and the birth of another.

I pick up the white dress shirt. The fabric is crisp, starched so stiff it crackles when I unfold it. I slip my arms through the sleeves. The collar presses against my neck, tight and restrictive. It feels like a noose made of Egyptian cotton and ambition.

I button the cuffs. Gold links. Engraved with my initials. C.R. But they feel like someone else's initials now.

I slide into the trousers. They're tailored to perfection, custom-made by a Savile Row tailor who flew to Atlanta just to measure me. They fit like a second skin. They cost more than my first car.

I put on the vest. Midnight blue, matching the jacket. It tightens around my chest as I fasten the buttons, compressing everything, holding it all in—the doubt, the fear, the last gasps of the person I used to be. The vest is armor. The vest is a cage.

And finally, the jacket.

I shrug it on. The weight of it settles on my shoulders like responsibility, like destiny, like inevitability. The silk lining is cool against my arms. I button the front. I adjust the lapels.

I walk to the mirror at the end of the bus.

The man staring back at me is handsome. Objectively, professionally handsome. He looks successful. He looks powerful. He looks like a champion, like money, like everything American capitalism promises you can become if you just work hard enough and sell the right parts of yourself.

But his eyes...

His eyes are dead.

The twinkle is gone. That spark that made kids light up when they saw me, that made grown men cry when I won the title at WrestleMania—it's extinguished. The "American Nightmare" is gone, and what's left is just... a man in a suit. A very expensive suit. A very empty suit.

There's a knock on the bus door. Three sharp raps.

"Cody?" Paul Heyman's voice, muffled through the metal. "It's time. The Boss is waiting in Gorilla."

I take a deep breath. I inhale the last gasp of the hero, pull it deep into my lungs, hold it there for a moment like I'm trying to preserve it.

I exhale the first breath of the villain. It tastes like smoke.

"I'm coming, Paul."

I grab the title belt from where it rests on the table. I don't throw it over my shoulder the way I used to. I don't kiss the center plate the way I did after every defense, honoring the legacy of everyone who held it before me. I carry it like a briefcase. Like a prop. Like an asset on a balance sheet.

I step toward the door. My hand touches the handle.

This is the moment. This is the threshold. Once I cross it, there's no going back.

I think about the kid in the parking lot. I think about Brandi. I think about Dusty.

Then I think about the Rolex waiting for me. The private jet. The Board seat. The generational wealth.

I open the door and step out into the cold Chicago air.

The transformation is complete.

The man who exits this bus is not the man who entered it at 2 PM.

That man is dead.

Long live the American Standard.

​

V. THE EXECUTION: RAW OPENING SEGMENT​

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 8:00 PM CT
LOCATION: Center Ring, Allstate Arena
PERSPECTIVE: Cody Rhodes (Transcript & Internal Monologue)​

8:00 PM: THE DARKNESS​

The lights go out.

Total. Complete. Absolute darkness.

There is no "Wrestling has more than one royal family." No triumphant proclamation. No drum beat thundering through the PA system. No "Kingdom." No pyrotechnics painting the arena in gold and white. No celebration of arrival.

Just darkness.

And then... the sound of a GAVEL.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound is judicial. Final. It echoes through the Allstate Arena like the closing of a casket, like the sealing of a tomb. Each strike is a period at the end of a sentence that reads: The fairy tale is over.

The TitanTron flickers to life. But it's not a highlight reel of my greatest moments. It's not the three-star matches, the blood, the tears, the Journey. It's a stock ticker. Red lines declining. Blue lines rising. The TKO Holdings logo spinning in corporate sterility. Numbers. Metrics. Data.

And then the music hits.

Not mine.

"FINAL BOSS."

The boos aren't a sound—they're a physical force. They shake the floorboards beneath my feet in Gorilla Position. The bass of their hatred vibrates through the concrete, through the steel, through my bones. I can feel it in my chest cavity, displacing my heartbeat with their rage.

I look at Dwayne standing next to me. He's adjusting his cufflink—18-karat gold, custom-made, probably worth more than most people's monthly rent. His face is calm. Serene. He's done this before. He's been hated before. He knows how to weaponize it.

"Ready to close the deal?" he asks, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.

I swallow. My throat is dry. "Let's sign the papers."

We walk out.

The visual is precisely calculated to devastate. The Rock in a $5,000 silk vest, charcoal gray, Italian-cut, the kind of thing you wear to close a billion-dollar merger. Me, in the midnight blue suit, holding the Undisputed Championship not around my waist where it belongs, not over my shoulder like a proud warrior, but folded over my arm like a coat. Like an accessory. Like something I own rather than something that owns me.

And behind us, scurrying like a haunted man, is Paul Heyman, clutching a thick leather portfolio like it's a shield against the incoming artillery of hatred.

Debris begins to rain down before we even clear the tunnel.

A half-full beer cup arcs through the air, catching the harsh arena lights, spraying foam. It hits the ramp three feet in front of me with a wet splat. I step over it without breaking stride. Another cup. A crumpled sign. Someone throws a replica belt—my replica belt—at my head. It sails past, clattering onto the steel.

They're not just booing. They're screaming. Guttural, throat-shredding screams of betrayal.

Security is struggling at the barricades. The steel rail is bending. I see hands reaching over, grasping at nothing, wanting to tear us apart. I see a man in the front row—I recognize him. He's been to fifty shows. Maybe more. He's been front row for my best moments. I've made eye contact with him before, given him the nod.

Now he's screaming the word "WHORE" at me until the veins pop in his neck, until his face turns purple, until security has to physically restrain him.

I look him in the eye.

I don't wink. I don't smile. I don't give him anything.

I look through him. Past him. He doesn't exist anymore.

We reach the ring. Paul struggles to climb through the ropes, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops the portfolio. Rock slides in smoothly, like a predator entering its den. I follow.

The sound is apocalyptic.
THE ROCK stands center ring. He doesn't try to speak over them. He absorbs it. For a full five minutes, he just stands there, arms at his sides, breathing in their hatred like it's oxygen. His chest rises and falls. He's feeding on this.

Finally, he raises the microphone to his lips.

"Chicago... sit down and shut up."

The crowd explodes. The building shakes. A chant erupts from the upper deck, spreading like wildfire:

"FUCK YOU ROCKY! clap clap clapclapclap FUCK YOU ROCKY!"

The cameras shake. The ring shakes. Reality itself seems to vibrate with their rage.

Rock smiles. It's the smile of a man who knows he's already won.

"I understand you are emotional. I understand you are hurt. Your feelings are valid—I acknowledge them. But this is not a therapy session. This is a shareholder meeting. And as the Director of TKO Holdings, as the man who signs the checks that keep this circus running, I am calling this meeting to order."

He turns to Paul Heyman. He snaps his fingers like he's summoning a servant. The sound is sharp, cruel. Paul flinches visibly, his body jerking like he's been struck. He steps forward, holding a microphone with a trembling hand.

The crowd boos him, but it's different. It's confusion mixed with betrayal. Paul Heyman was Roman's. Paul Heyman was family. What is he doing here?

PAUL HEYMAN:
"Ladies and Gentlemen... my name is Paul Heyman."

CROWD: "SCUMBAG! SCUMBAG! SCUMBAG!"

Paul's face twitches. For a moment—just a flash—I see genuine pain cross his features. But he buries it. He's a professional.

"I... I am here tonight in my capacity not as the Wiseman to Roman Reigns... but as Special Counsel to the Board of Directors of TKO Holdings."

He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It's not hot in here. This is fear sweat. He looks at me, his eyes pleading for... what? Validation? Permission? Absolution?

I give him a nod. Cold. Imperative. A nod that says: Do your job, Paul. Or you're next.

PAUL HEYMAN:
"For one thousand, three hundred days, I served Roman Reigns. I served the Tribal Chief because I believed—I genuinely believed—that he was the best fiduciary agent for the Undisputed Championship. I believed he understood that this title is not just leather and gold—it's the most valuable asset in professional wrestling."

He holds up the leather portfolio, his hands still shaking.

"But the data changed. The metrics shifted. Roman Reigns became... volatile. He became emotional. He started making decisions based on 'family' and 'honor' and 'blood' rather than profit and dominance and sustainability. And in this business, in ANY business, emotion is a liability. Sentiment is a cancer that kills companies."

The crowd erupts with a chant: "WE WANT ROMAN! WE WANT ROMAN!"

The sound of his name being chanted in his absence is haunting. It's like summoning a ghost. Paul raises his voice, his old ECW fury cutting through the fear, reminding everyone in this building that before he was Roman's wiseman, he was the mad prophet of extreme.

PAUL HEYMAN:
"You want Roman? You want a leader who CRUMBLES under pressure? You want a man who puts his cousins' feelings ahead of the bottom line?

The Board does not want Roman! The Board demands stability! The Board demands a champion who understands that the title is not a necklace you wear to feel powerful—it is a STOCK OPTION! It is an investment vehicle! It is the engine that drives BILLIONS in revenue!

And that is why... with a heavy heart but a clear head... with regret but without remorse... I facilitated the transition. I opened the door. I let the Final Boss in. Because it was my DUTY to ensure the survival of this company!"

Paul steps back, clutching the portfolio to his chest like a shield, looking like a man who just confessed to a murder he's trying to convince himself was justified.

The Rock takes over, stepping forward, his voice booming.

THE ROCK:
"Thank you, Paul. You see, Chicago? THAT is what intelligence sounds like. That is what fiduciary responsibility sounds like.

You people operate on feelings. 'Oh, Cody finished the story!' 'Oh, Roman is our Tribal Chief!' 'Oh, wrestling is supposed to make us FEEL something!'

Garbage. Emotional garbage from emotional children.

We operate on forecasts. We operate on quarterly projections. We operate on sustainable growth models. And the forecast for the Bloodline under Roman Reigns was BANKRUPTCY. It was decline. It was a stock in free fall.

So I made an executive decision. I liquidated the asset known as Roman Reigns. And I acquired a new asset. A blue-chip stock with guaranteed returns."

Rock turns to me. The arena focuses its hatred like a laser. He hands me the microphone.

The heat transfers instantly. It's hotter for me. Exponentially hotter. Because they expected this from Rock. Rock has been a heel before. Rock has turned on them before. They've been through this cycle with him.

But me?

They loved me. They trusted me. They believed in me. They invested their emotions in my story, bought my merch for their kids, cried when I won at WrestleMania.

And I'm about to stab them in the heart.

I step forward. The sound is deafening, a solid wall of noise that threatens to knock me backward. I look at the hard camera. I look at the timekeeper, who's watching this unfold with his mouth open. I look at the announce team, who've gone silent.

I am in no rush.

I let them scream themselves hoarse. I let them burn their throats raw with hatred.

Finally, I raise the microphone.

CODY RHODES:
"I stood in this ring... three years ago... and I told you I came back to finish the story."

CROWD: "YOU SOLD OUT! YOU SOLD OUT! YOU SOLD OUT!"

The chant is rhythmic. Relentless. It sounds like war drums.

"I hear you. I hear the anger. I hear the betrayal. But you need to understand something. Stories... stories are for children. Stories are fairy tales you tell yourself to make the harsh reality of the world feel bearable. Stories are lies we tell to avoid confronting the truth.

I didn't come back to finish a story. I came back to build an empire."

I walk to the turnbuckle. I rest my hand on the pad, feeling the canvas beneath my palm. I look tired. Not physically tired—emotionally exhausted. Exhausted by their expectations, their needs, their constant hunger for me to be their hero.

I look at Paul Heyman, who nods fervently, validating every word I say like a minister affirming scripture.

CODY RHODES:
"You call me a sellout?
Let's talk about 'selling out.'
Let's have an honest conversation about that word you keep screaming.
My father, Dusty Rhodes, was the 'American Dream.' You loved him. You chanted his name. You wore his polka dots on your shirts and your signs. You told your children about him.
But let me tell you a story I never told you on the documentaries. Let me tell you about Christmas 1999."

The arena quiets. Not completely—there are still boos, still scattered curses—but they want the dirt. They always want the dirt. Human nature: we slow down for car crashes.

CODY RHODES:
"I was fourteen years old. It was my first Christmas without my grandfather. My mother was working double shifts at a hospital because the WCW checks were late again—they were always late. My father was barely home, working every territory left that would still book him, driving a thousand miles for a $500 payday.

But I wanted something. Just one thing. A red Trek mountain bike. I'd seen it at the bike shop in Marietta. I'd stood outside the window for an hour just staring at it. I knew we couldn't afford it. I knew better than to ask.

But on Christmas morning... that bike was under the tree."

I pause. My throat feels tight. This isn't an act. This memory is real. This pain is real.

"I was so happy. I hugged him. I told him he was the greatest father in the world. I told him I'd treasure it forever.

Two weeks later, I walked past his bedroom door. It was open. He was on the phone with a pawn shop in Marietta. I heard him begging—BEGGING—them not to melt down his Rolex. The gold Rolex he won in Florida Championship Wrestling in 1981. The only thing of value he had left. His legacy in a watch.

He was negotiating. Pleading. Promising he'd buy it back in thirty days when the next check came in."

I touch the bare wrist on my left hand. The gesture is deliberate. I want them to see what's missing.

"He never bought it back. The check didn't come. WCW folded. The territories were dead. And that Rolex—the physical embodiment of everything he'd accomplished—got melted down and turned into scrap.

He sold his legacy to buy me a toy.

And you people? You cheered for that. You called that 'passion.' You called that 'The American Dream.' You made him a folk hero for being noble in poverty.

I call it stupidity.

I call it martyrdom without meaning.

I call it a tragedy that I refuse to repeat."

The venom in my voice is real. I'm not shouting—I'm dissecting them with surgical precision.

CODY RHODES:
"He died an employee. He died a jester in a court he should have been ruling. He gave you his blood, his sweat, his knees, his back, and his dignity. He gave you everything.

And you gave him... applause?

Applause doesn't pay the mortgage. Applause doesn't buy back the watch. Applause doesn't feed your family or secure your future. Applause is just noise. And when you die, the noise stops, and all you leave behind is debt and a gravestone that says 'He Made People Happy.'"

The crowd is stunned. Some are still booing, but others have gone quiet. I've hit something real. I've weaponized their love for my father against them.

"I loved my father. God, I loved him. But I refuse to BE him. I refuse to be the tragedy. I refuse to die broke and beloved.

When The Rock called me... when Paul Heyman presented the contract... when they showed me the numbers, the projections, the equity stake, the Board seat... I didn't see a betrayal. I saw an evolution.

Roman Reigns wanted you to acknowledge him because he was insecure. He needed your love to fill the hole in his soul. He needed you to validate him, to tell him he was special, to make him feel like he mattered.

I don't need your love.

I have the receipts."

I hold up the title belt. I tap the gold faceplate with my knuckle. The sound echoes through the ring mic.

CODY RHODES:
"This isn't a championship anymore. This is a key. A key to the boardroom. A key to the private jet. A key to a life where my daughter never has to pawn a watch to buy her kid a bike.

So go ahead. Burn the weight belts you bought. Rip the shirts you wore. Cry on your podcasts about how I broke your heart.

Because the 'American Nightmare' is dead.

I woke up.

And I am the American Standard."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. I can see people in the crowd—grown men—with tears streaming down their faces. Not tears of sadness. Tears of rage. Tears of betrayal so profound it's crossed into grief.

I turn to The Rock. He's smiling. It's a shark recognizing another shark. An apex predator acknowledging an equal. He reaches into the inside pocket of his vest—slow, deliberate, theatrical. He pulls out a box. Small. Velvet. The kind of box that holds either an engagement ring or a very expensive watch.

He opens it.

The Rolex.

It catches the harsh arena lights and throws them back like captured stars. White gold. Diamond hour markers. A blue face that matches my suit. It's not just a watch—it's a statement. It's worth more than most people make in a year. It's a symbol of arrival, of transcendence, of leaving the working class behind forever.

He takes my wrist—the wrist with the tattoo, the wrist with the dream catcher I got tattooed when I was twenty-three and still believed in symbols and magic. The wrist I used to tape before every match while telling myself I was doing this for the right reasons.

He clasps the gold over it.

The weight is immediate. Heavy. Cold.

THE ROCK:
"A signing bonus. For the Undisputed Future."

I look at the watch. The second hand ticks forward. Precise. Inevitable. Expensive.

I look at the crowd. Thousands of faces twisted in hatred and heartbreak.

I smirk.

It's not a smile. It's something colder. It's the expression of a man who's just crossed a line he can never uncross, and he's decided to sprint forward rather than look back.

And that is when the static hits.
The sound tears through the PA system like reality itself is glitching.

STATIC. WHITE NOISE. DISTORTION.

And then...

The sound of a viper striking.

"I HEAR VOICES IN MY HEAD..."

The roof doesn't blow off—it explodes. The pop is so loud, so sudden, so visceral that I feel it in my chest like a second heartbeat. The entire arena rises as one organism, 18,000 people on their feet, screaming with a mixture of bloodlust and salvation.

It's not Roman.

It's worse.

Randy Orton.

He appears at the top of the ramp, and he's not doing the pose. He's not doing the slow, methodical walk. He's not playing to the crowd or savoring the moment. He walks with a purpose I haven't seen from him since 2009, when he was kicking down doors and punting legends in the skull. This is Viper Randy. This is dangerous Randy.

The Rock and I exchange a glance. Paul Heyman has gone pale—like someone just walked on his grave.

Randy slides into the ring. He doesn't even acknowledge The Rock. His eyes are locked on mine like heat-seeking missiles. He steps right into my personal space, close enough that I can smell the leather of his jacket, close enough that I can see the scar tissue above his eyebrow from a thousand matches.

The air in the ring becomes thin. Oxygen seems to evacuate the space.

RANDY ORTON:
"That's a nice watch, Cody."

His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Does it tell you what time you lost your balls?"

The crowd ROARS. The building shakes. People are jumping up and down. Security is struggling to keep people from climbing the barricades.

I look at the watch. Ostentatiously. Slowly. I check the time like I'm genuinely curious. I let the moment breathe. Then I smile—the new smile, the corporate smile, the smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

CODY RHODES:
"Randy. Always the crude instrument. Always the blunt force trauma when surgical precision is required.

I watched the Elimination Chamber on Saturday. Congratulations on the win. You punched your ticket to WrestleMania 41. You eliminated five other men to earn the right to challenge me for this championship."

I tap the belt.

"But let's be realistic. You barely walked out of that structure. I saw the medical reports—Paul forwarded them to me. Separated shoulder. Bruised ribs. You're competing at maybe sixty percent capacity.

So I assumed you came out here to do the smart thing. Did you come to surrender your title shot? Did you come to negotiate a buyout so you don't have to embarrass yourself against me? My office opens Monday at 9 AM. You can call my assistant. We'll work out a number that makes sense for everyone."

RANDY ORTON:

He laughs. It's a dry, humorless sound—the laugh of a man who's seen everything and been disappointed by most of it.

"You think this is about money? You think I care about the Board? About quarterly earnings and stock prices and shareholder value?

I'm looking at you, Cody, and I'm trying to find him. I'm trying to find the kid I drove up and down the roads with. The kid I plucked from obscurity when nobody else would give him a chance. The kid who carried my bags, who taped my wrists, who watched my matches from the gorilla position and took notes like he was studying for the bar exam.

I remember a kid who had fire. Who had something to prove. Who wanted to carve his own path because being Dusty's son wasn't enough for him.

But I don't see him.

I see a guy in a suit who looks like he's playing dress-up in his father's closet. I see a lapdog for a Hollywood part-timer who shows up four times a year to collect a check."

The words land like body shots. I feel my jaw tighten. The smile fades from my face.

CODY RHODES:

I step closer to him. We're nose to nose now. I can feel his breath.

"Careful, Randy. The 'lapdog' signs your checks now. I sit on the Board that approves your contract. One word from me, and you're wrestling in high school gyms in front of fifty people who peaked in 1999."

I let that sink in.

"And let's not rewrite history. You didn't 'pluck me from obscurity.' You held me down. Legacy wasn't a mentorship—it was a dictatorship. You used me. You used Ted. You used us to take the bumps you didn't want to take anymore. You stood on our shoulders to keep yourself elevated while your body was breaking down.

You say you taught me?

You taught me that in this business, everyone is a snake. Everyone has venom. Everyone will strike when it benefits them.

Well, congratulations, Randy. The student learned the lesson. I just evolved. I'm not a snake anymore. I'm the gardener. And I'm pulling the weeds."

RANDY ORTON:

Something shifts in his eyes. They go cold. Dead. I've seen this look before—right before he punted Vince McMahon in the skull.

"Weeds? Is that what I am? Is that what Roman was?

You talk about evolution. I've evolved for twenty years. I've reinvented myself more times than you've had title reigns. I'm still here. I'm still relevant. I'm still the Apex Predator.

But you... you ran away.

You didn't like your spot, so you took your ball and went home. You built your little 'empire' in the minor leagues because you couldn't hack it in the big time. You went to play king of the Indies because being a prince here was too hard."

That one stings. I feel my face flush.

"And then you came crawling back. With your tears and your journey and your unfinished story. And we welcomed you. The fans welcomed you. I welcomed you.

I was proud of you, Cody.

When you won the Rumble... when you main evented WrestleMania... when you beat Roman and held that belt up... I looked at you and I thought, 'Finally. He's his own man. He's not Dusty's kid anymore. He's Cody Rhodes.'"

His voice drops. Gets quieter. More dangerous.

"But I was wrong.

You're not your own man. You're just a sidekick again. You just traded a viper for a Brahma Bull. You just switched masters and convinced yourself it was freedom."

CODY RHODES:

My hands are shaking. I grip the microphone tighter to hide it.

"I am NOBODY'S sidekick! I am the Undisputed Champion of the world! I am the highest-paid performer in this company! I sit at the table where decisions are made!"

I'm shouting now. The composure is cracking.

"And what are you, Randy? You're a nostalgia act. You're a 'Greatest Hits' album that nobody buys anymore. You do the pose. You hit the RKO. You hear the pop. And then you go home to your wife and your tour bus and your legends contract that pays you to show up and remind people what you used to be.

You have no ambition. You have no vision. You're coasting on fumes of relevance.

My father loved you, Randy. He did. Did you know that? He talked about you like the son he never had. He'd watch your matches and point out everything you did right. He'd praise your psychology, your timing, your instincts.

Do you know how much that hurt me? To hear him praise you while you treated me like garbage? While you made me carry your bags and fetch your coffee and tape your wrists like I was your servant?"

RANDY ORTON:

His expression softens, but it's not warmth. It's something colder. Pity.

"Dusty respected me because I was honest. Because I never pretended to be something I wasn't.

Dusty knew who I was. I'm a snake. I'm a viper. I'm a predator. I admit it. I own it. I've never lied about what I am.

But you? You're a liar, Cody.

You lied to these people. You stood in this ring and promised them you'd be different. You promised them you'd finish the story, that you'd be the hero they needed.

You lied to your family. You told Brandi this was about legacy. About honoring your father. About proving something.

You lied to yourself. You convinced yourself that this—" he gestures at the suit, the watch, The Rock "—is evolution. That this is growth. That this is winning.

But it's not.

You sold your soul for a watch and a seat at a table where they will never truly respect you. To Dwayne, to Heyman, to the Board... you're just the hired help in a nice suit. You're just the talent. You're disposable.

And when they're done with you? When your stock drops? When the metrics shift and the data changes? They'll liquidate you just like they did Roman. They'll throw you in the trash just like you threw away that hoodie."

The silence in the arena is deafening. He's struck bone.

"The difference between you and me? When they come for me, I'll bite back. I always have.

But you? You'll just ask them which suit they want you to wear while they do it."

THE ROCK:

Dwayne steps forward, putting himself between us. His chest puffs out. The Brahma Bull protecting his investment.

"Watch your mouth, boy. Or I will cancel you like a bad sitcom. You are speaking to the High Table. You are speaking to your superiors. You're a dinosaur, Randy. A relic. And this company has evolved beyond needing—"

The strike is instantaneous.

RKO OUT OF NOWHERE.

Rock had no idea it was coming. One second he's talking, the next he's being yanked down by his head, his body whipping forward, his face spiking into the canvas with a sickening THUD.

The pop is nuclear. The building is shaking. People are screaming themselves hoarse.

Rock bounces off the canvas like he's been shot, his eyes rolling back in his head, his body going limp. He's unconscious before he even settles.

I drop the belt. Pure instinct. Pure panic.

I lunge at Randy, swinging the microphone like a club. He sees it coming—of course he does, he's Randy Orton, he sees everything. He ducks smoothly, like he's done this ten thousand times.

He kicks me in the gut.

The air explodes from my lungs. I double over, gasping, my expensive suit suddenly feeling like a straightjacket.

He grabs me by the hair. Yanks me up. Pulls me close until his face is inches from mine. I can smell the violence coming off him like heat from an engine.

RANDY ORTON:

His voice is a whisper, but the ring mics pick it up. Everyone hears it.

"Run, Cody. Run like you always do."

He positions me. I know what's coming. I've taken this move a hundred times. The RKO.

But this time, survival kicks in. Adrenaline overrides pride.

I shove him off—hard. With everything I have. He stumbles back two steps.

I don't stay to fight. I don't stand my ground like a champion should.

I scramble. I crawl. I don't retreat with dignity—I panic. I roll under the bottom rope, falling awkwardly onto the announce table, gasping for air, my ribs screaming, my heart hammering against my sternum.

I grab the title belt from where it landed outside the ring. I grab my wrist, checking that the Rolex is still there—still intact. Both prizes accounted for.

I retreat up the ramp, clutching my ribs, stumbling in my expensive shoes.

I look back.

Randy is standing over The Rock's unconscious body. He isn't posing. He isn't playing to the crowd. He's just staring at me. Through me. Into me.

The Viper.

The Board might own the company. But the Viper lives in the walls.

8:30 PM: THE DECREE​

Rock isn't just angry anymore. He's calculating. His rage has crystallized into cold, surgical malice. He's not throwing chairs anymore—he's plotting murder.

He stormed into Adam Pearce's office. He didn't knock. He kicked the door so hard the frame splintered, wood cracking like bone.

"Orton," Rock hissed, holding an ice pack to his throat, his voice gravelly from the impact. "I want him dead. Professionally dead. Spiritually dead. I want his career ended in that ring tonight."

Pearce tried to stutter about protocol, about procedures, about how things are supposed to work. "He... he assaulted an executive. I can suspend him. I can—"

"Suspend him?" Rock laughed. It's a terrible sound—mirthless, venomous. "I don't want him at home sitting by his pool, collecting legends contract money. I want him in that ring. I want him fed to the wolves. I want blood."

Rock pointed at the roster sheet on the wall. His finger landed on a name with the precision of a drone strike.

"McIntyre. The Scottish Psychopath. Put them in the main event. Tonight."

"But Drew is scheduled for—"

"I don't care what he's scheduled for. Change it. Orton versus McIntyre. Main event. And make it No Disqualification. I don't want rules protecting him. I don't want a referee pulling Drew off when he's beating Randy into paste. I want a crime scene. I want the ability to strip him of everything—including his dignity—without a referee getting in the way."

Pearce looked at me, seeking backup, seeking sanity. I said nothing. I just nodded.

Rock smiled. "Good. And Cody? You're on commentary. I want you at ringside. I want you to watch what happens to people who strike the Final Boss."

​

---

VI. THE MAIN EVENT: THE AMBUSH​

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 10:50 PM CT
LOCATION: Gorilla Position / Ringside
PERSPECTIVE: Cody Rhodes​

10:45 PM: THE MAIN EVENT (ORTON VS. MCINTYRE)​

I'm at the commentary desk. The headset sits heavy on my head. Michael Cole is to my left, trying to stay neutral, trying to call the match like it's just another Monday night. Corey Graves is to my right, and he's shooting me looks—questioning, judging.

I keep the headset mostly off for the first ten minutes. I just watch.

The match is violent in a way that feels personal. Drew McIntyre is hungry. He's been circling the main event scene for months, and with the Bloodline gone, with Roman removed from the equation, he smells blood in the water. He wants the spot. He wants the throne.

And Randy is the last obstacle.

Drew beats him from pillar to post. With the No Disqualification stipulation, Drew uses everything—steel steps driven into Randy's spine, a kendo stick cracked across his back until it splinters, a chair wrapped around his throat. Every shot echoes through the arena like a death knell.

But Randy... Randy is the cockroach of this industry. You can't kill him. He's survived two decades of this business. He's survived Wellness Policy violations, injuries that would've ended other careers, booking decisions designed to bury him. He always survives.

At 10:58 PM, Randy hits the draping DDT on Drew—onto a steel chair. Drew's head bounces off the metal with a sound that makes the front row wince. Randy coils in the corner, pounding the mat, his body vibrating with that primal energy that precedes the RKO.

The crowd is on their feet. They actually think he's going to win. They think the hero is going to overcome the odds, that good will triumph, that the story will have a happy ending.

Cute.

​

Randy stalks Drew. Drew stumbles to his feet, dazed, blood trickling from his hairline. Randy lunges—

RKO!

Drew goes down like a building being demolished. The impact is perfect. The crowd erupts. The referee—Chad Patton—drops to count.

ONE...

TWO...

I stand up from the commentary desk. Calmly. Deliberately. No panic. No rush.

I pick up the timekeeper's bell. It's heavy, solid brass, cold in my hands. I slide it into the ring.

It clatters across the canvas, skittering to a stop right at Randy's feet.

Chad sees it. He looks at me. He looks at the bell. But it's No Disqualification. He can't do anything about it.

Randy looks at the bell. He looks at me.

I mouth the words slowly, clearly: "Go ahead, Randy. Use it. Be the Viper."

He hesitates.

That split second of morality—that moment where he remembers who he used to want to be—is his mistake.

Drew recovers. He's on his feet. Randy turns—

CLAYMORE KICK.

The sound is like a shotgun blast. Randy's head snaps back. He stumbles but doesn't fall. He's still standing, swaying, his eyes unfocused.

And then Rock's music hits.

"FINAL BOSS."

He walks down the ramp, sleeves rolled up, ice pack gone, fury incarnate. His eyebrow is still bandaged. He looks like a mob boss coming to collect a debt.

Randy turns to face him, instinctively knowing the real threat.

And that's when I enter the ring from behind.

I'm not thinking. I'm just moving. Operating on programming. On orders. On the script we didn't write down but both understood.

Low blow.

My hand drives up between his legs. Randy's entire body seizes. His face contorts. He drops to his knees.

The referee sees it. He does nothing. No Disqualification. The bell doesn't ring. The massacre continues.

Rock enters the ring. He stands over Randy, breathing hard, savoring this.

Rock Bottom.

Randy is planted. Destroyed. Drew crawls over and drapes an arm across him.

ONE... TWO... THREE.

The bell rings. Drew McIntyre's music plays. But nobody cares about Drew.

​

Rock doesn't leave. The match is over, but the punishment isn't.

He takes off his belt—the leather belt with "FINAL BOSS" embossed in gold. He folds it in his hand, testing the weight.

And then he whips Randy with it.

CRACK.

Randy's back arches. A red welt appears instantly.

CRACK.

Another strike. Randy tries to roll away. Rock plants a boot on his chest, holding him down.

"You want to strike the Final Boss?" Rock screams, his voice raw. "I am the head of the snake! I am the reason this company exists!"

I grab a steel chair from the corner. My hands move on autopilot. I wrap it around Randy's neck—the way Edge did to John Cena. The way Seth Rollins did to Edge. A sacred ritual of destruction passed down through generations.

"End it," Rock commands.

I climb the turnbuckle. My legs feel weak. I look down at Randy—my mentor, my tormentor, the man who taught me everything and gave me nothing.

I'm going to Pillman-ize his neck. I'm going to end his career. I'm going to stomp on the chair and compress his vertebrae and send him home in an ambulance.

I look at the crowd. They're screaming in horror. Some are crying. Some are trying to climb the barricades to stop me.

"JUMP!" Rock yells.

I tense my legs. I prepare to leap.

And then... the atmosphere changes.

​

It's not a sound. Not at first.

It's a drop in pressure. A shift in reality. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

The lights don't go out. The TitanTron doesn't flash. There's no theatrical warning.

Just a single, guttural roar from the crowd that starts in the upper deck—the cheap seats, where the real fans sit—and washes over the arena like a tsunami.

And then the music hits.

"OOOOAAAAHHHHHH..."

"I AM THE HEAD OF THE TABLE..."

Roman Reigns.

But he doesn't walk through the tunnel. He doesn't make a grand entrance.

He comes through the crowd.

Shield style.

But he's not wearing the tactical vest. Not wearing the tribal regalia. He's in a black hoodie—hood up—and jeans. He looks smaller. Less like a Chief. Less like a god.

More like a man with nothing left to lose.

And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.

I freeze on the turnbuckle. My brain short-circuits. This isn't possible. Roman was fired. Roman was liquidated. Roman shouldn't even be in the building.

Rock turns around. His eyes go wide. For the first time tonight, I see fear flicker across his face.

Roman hops the barricade. The crowd is deafening. He slides into the ring with predatory grace.

I jump off the top rope—not to stomp Randy, but to intercept Roman. I swing the chair—

SUPERMAN PUNCH.

I never see it coming. His fist collides with my jaw and the world goes spinning. Colors bleed together. Sound becomes muffled. I crash into the corner, my body crumpling, my jaw feeling like it's been relocated to a different part of my skull.

Everything hurts. Everything is wrong.

Roman doesn't even look at me. I'm irrelevant. I'm collateral damage.

He stares at The Rock.

The crowd is chanting: "HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!"

Rock tries to talk. He holds up his hand—the universal gesture of "let's be reasonable." "Roman, listen to me. This is business. This isn't personal. We can—"

SPEAR.

It's not a wrestling move. It's a car crash. It's vehicular manslaughter. Roman nearly cuts The Rock in half, driving him down with such force that the ring shakes, that the announce table rattles, that reality itself seems to buckle under the impact.

Rock folds. His body jackknifes. His eyes bulge. He gasps for air that won't come.

Roman stands over him. He doesn't do the roar. He doesn't point to the sky. He doesn't play to the crowd.

He mounts The Rock.

And he starts punching.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

It's not strategic. It's not calculated. It's primal. It's ugly. It's the liquidation of a debt written in blood and betrayal.

Rock's face becomes a canvas of violence. Blood starts spraying—first from his eyebrow where the butterfly bandage tears away, then from his nose, then from his mouth.

Roman's fists are soaked. He doesn't stop. He can't stop. Years of being controlled, manipulated, used—it all pours out through his knuckles.

Finally, Roman stands. His chest heaves. Blood—Rock's blood—drips from his hands onto the canvas.

He looks at me in the corner.

I look at the exit.

I look at the Rolex on my wrist.

I make a business decision.

I roll out of the ring and scramble up the ramp, leaving my boss to die. Leaving the man who gave me this opportunity bleeding in a pool of his own corporate blood.

I don't look back until I reach the stage.

Roman picks up the Undisputed Championship belt from where I dropped it. He holds it, studying it like an artifact from a past life.

He looks at The Rock, unconscious, broken, bleeding.

He throws the belt down on Rock's chest with contempt.

He doesn't want the title.

He wants the soul of the company back.

VII. THE LONG NIGHT: POST-MORTEM​

DATE: March 4, 2025
TIME: 2:45 AM CT
LOCATION: The Peninsula Chicago - The Grand Suite
PERSPECTIVE: Cody Rhodes​

11:45 PM: THE TRIAGE​

The locker room is a mausoleum.

Usually, after a show, there's noise. Controlled chaos. Showers running, bags zipping, wrestlers laughing about spots that went wrong, production staff breaking down equipment. The ambient sound of a workplace transitioning from performance to aftermath.

Tonight? Silence. Complete. Terrified. Suffocating silence.

I walk past the trainer's room. The door is ajar. I shouldn't look, but I do.

The Rock is sitting on the training table. He's not the Final Boss. He doesn't look like a board member or a director or a billion-dollar brand. He looks human. Vulnerable. Small.

A butterfly bandage covers his eyebrow where Roman's fist split the skin. His left eye is swelling shut, the tissue around it turning purple and black in real-time. He's holding an ice pack to his ribs, wincing every time he breathes.

Doc Sampson is checking his vision with a penlight, asking him questions about what day it is, who the president is, where he is.

Rock looks up. He sees me standing in the doorway.

We make eye contact.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't nod. He doesn't acknowledge me beyond that look.

He just stares at my clean suit. At the fact that I'm standing, and he's sitting. At the fact that I ran. That I left him.

The judgment in his eyes is silent but absolute.

I keep walking. I tell myself it was strategy. Protect the asset. Preserve the champion. If we both go down, the stock drops. The plan falls apart.

But deep down, in the part of my gut that hasn't turned to stone yet, I know what it was.

Cowardice.

I ran.

12:30 AM: THE COMMUTE​

The black SUV is waiting for me outside the loading dock. Engine running, tinted windows hiding me from the world. I climb in. Alone.

No Paul. No Dwayne. No entourage.

Just me and the driver—a silent professional who knows better than to ask questions.

"Hotel, Mr. Rhodes?"

"Yes. Just drive."

He pulls out of the lot. We pass the die-hards still lingering outside, holding signs that will never be seen, wearing shirts that will never be acknowledged. One of them recognizes the vehicle. He flips us off. Someone throws something—a cup, maybe—that bounces off the window.

I should feel something. Anger. Satisfaction. Something.

I feel nothing.

I pull out my phone. I know I shouldn't. I know what I'll find. But I can't help it—it's like probing a wound to see how deep it goes.

The internet isn't burning anymore. It's moved past fire. It's ash. Nuclear ash.

The image of Roman standing over Rock—it's already iconic. Forty million views in ninety minutes. Every wrestling site. Every sports site. CNN is covering it. ESPN is covering it. It's transcended wrestling and become cultural.

And me?

The screenshots have been isolated. The moment I rolled out of the ring. The moment I ran up the ramp. The moment I left Rock bleeding.

The comments are unanimous. Unified. There's no debate, no discussion, no nuance.

"Coward."

"Rat."

"He left him to die."

"This is who Cody really is."

"I hope Roman gets him next."

I lock the screen. I stare out the window at Chicago passing by in streaks of amber streetlights and red taillights. The city looks beautiful at night—dangerous and beautiful, like something that could kill you while making you feel alive.

I touch my jaw. It throbs. A reminder of the Superman Punch. A receipt from the past for crimes of the present.

1:15 AM: THE SUITE​

The penthouse suite at The Peninsula is exactly as I left it this morning. Cold. Pristine. Expensive. Sterile.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Marble countertops. Egyptian cotton sheets. A bathroom with heated floors and a rainfall shower that costs more per minute than most people make in an hour.

I pour a drink. Blanton's. Single barrel bourbon. $200 a bottle.

My hands are shaking so badly I spill some on the marble counter. The amber liquid pools, and I watch it spread, thinking about how much that spill cost.

I'm thinking about cost a lot lately.

I walk to the bathroom mirror. The lights are harsh, revealing. I strip off the suit—the $12,000 armor. I throw it on the floor like it's garbage.

I look at the man in the glass.

There's a bruise forming on my chin where Roman's fist connected. It's dark, ugly, spreading like ink in water. My ribs are tender from where Randy kicked me. There's a small cut on my forearm from when I scraped against the announce table.

But otherwise... I'm fine.

I'm the Undisputed Champion. I'm the highest-paid star in the industry. I sit on the Board of Directors. I wear a watch worth more than my father's house.

I've won.

So why do I feel like I'm suffocating?

Why does my reflection look like a stranger?

2:30 AM: THE WATCH​

I lay in the king-sized bed, my body finally still but my mind still racing with electricity. The sheets were Egyptian cotton—twelve hundred thread count, imported, the kind you don't buy, you invest in. They were cool against my skin, smooth as a promise kept, and they felt like success. Like vindication. Like everything I'd ever told myself I deserved.

I closed my eyes, letting the adrenaline of the night finally settle into a warm hum of satisfaction that spread through my chest like expensive whiskey. My heart was still pounding—not from fear, never from fear—but from the pure, intoxicating rush of watching a plan come together with surgical precision.

Images played back in my head like highlights on a loop. Not of Roman's interference—that was just noise, static, the desperate flailing of a dying dynasty trying to stay relevant. No, I saw Randy.

I saw the look in Randy's eyes right before the Claymore connected. That fraction of a second that felt like an eternity, suspended in amber. The look when I slid the bell to him across the canvas like a gift, like an offering, like a test he was destined to fail.

He looked at me with confusion. Bewilderment etched across that weathered face, decades of ring wars written in every line and scar. He looked at me like a victim—which is exactly what he was, what he'd always been, he just didn't know it yet.

He hesitated. God, he actually hesitated. He let some outdated code of honor, some relic of a forgotten era, get in the way of winning. Of surviving. That single moment of weakness told me everything I needed to know. That is why he is the past—a monument to a world that no longer exists—and I am the forecast. I am the future, inevitable as a ticking clock, unstoppable as time itself.

I turned my head slowly on the pillow, silk against my cheek, and looked at the nightstand.

The Rolex.

It sat there like a trophy, gold and heavy, solid and real in a way that promises never are. Catching the faint amber light from the city below, the skyline I now lorded over like a king surveying his kingdom. The watch face gleamed, perfect, flawless.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It didn't sound like a countdown anymore. The anxiety of waiting was gone, burned away in the heat of victory. Now it sounded like a cash register. That beautiful mechanical cha-ching of success measured in seconds, minutes, dollars, legacy. It sounded like the heartbeat of the industry I now control—steady, relentless, mine.

I reached over and turned off the lamp with a soft click. The room plunged into darkness, complete and total, wrapping around me like a blanket.

People fear the dark. They think monsters live there, lurking in corners, waiting to pounce. Children cry for nightlights. Grown men check locks twice before bed.

I smiled in the blackness, feeling it spread across my face slow and satisfied.

I don't fear the dark.

I own the power company.

3:00 AM​

I was just drifting off, consciousness finally beginning to blur at the edges, reality softening into something dreamlike, when the phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The vibration seemed obscenely loud in the silence. Once. Twice. Then still.

One new message.

I lay there for a moment, debating. Part of me wanted to ignore it, to let whoever it was stew in their impotence. But curiosity—or was it something darker, something that needed to confirm what I already knew—made me reach for it.

Unknown Number.

The screen's blue light was harsh against my eyes, intrusive, pulling me back from the edge of sleep with cruel efficiency. I squinted, adjusted, focused.

Just text. No signature. No name. The cowardice of anonymity.

"You can't buy your way out of this one, kid."

I stared at the screen, the words glowing against the darkness like accusations. I knew who it was. Didn't need a name to recognize the tone, the condescension dripping from every letter. The old guard. The voice of "tradition." The dinosaurs who refused to admit the meteor had already struck, who kept insisting their way was the only way even as the world burned and evolved around them.

Kid.

They still called me kid, like I hadn't just systematically dismantled their hero. Like I hadn't proven exactly who the future belongs to.

I didn't throw the phone. My hand didn't even tremble. I didn't shake or rage or feel the hot flush of anger they wanted me to feel, the reaction that would prove I was still just a child playing in an adult's world.

Instead, I felt nothing. A cold, crystalline clarity. The calm of absolute certainty.

I typed a reply, each letter deliberate, precise.

"I already did."

Three words. Truth condensed to its purest form.

I hit send. Watched the message disappear into the ether. Then I blocked the number with a single swipe, erasing them from my world as easily as I'd erased any doubt about my place in it.

I put the phone down next to the watch. Gold beside glass. Old money beside new. Both mine.

Let them come. Let Roman come with his bloodline and his legacy and his tired speeches about family. Let Randy try to stand up on those broken knees, try to reclaim something that was never really his to begin with. Let them all come with their anger and their nostalgia and their impotent fury.

The Board meeting is adjourned.

The votes have been counted.

The decision is final.

And business—my business—has never been better.

I closed my eyes again, and this time, sleep came easy. Dreamless. Perfect.

The sleep of the righteous. Or maybe just the sleep of the victorious.

In the darkness, the Rolex kept ticking.