---
November 18, 2012 – Survivor Series, Bankers Life Fieldhouse, Indianapolis
The air backstage was electric, buzzing with tension, sweat, and a storm yet to break. All around, wrestlers were prepping, stretching, shadowboxing. Trainers moved like ants, shouting, adjusting wrist tape, relaying last-minute strategies. But in the far corner, three men stood apart from the chaos—calm, composed, dangerous.
Dean Ambrose leaned against a steel crate, pacing like a lion in a cage. Seth Rollins sat cross-legged, bouncing lightly, earbuds in, nodding to his own silent rhythm. Between them stood a man who felt like a force of nature rather than flesh and blood.
Black combat boots. Tactical vest molded to his granite chest. Jet-black hair tied back. A tattoo sleeve coiling like a serpent across his right arm. Eyes sharp, cold, calculating.
Roman Reigns.
Or at least... he looked like Roman.
Inside, the man was far more.
This wasn't WWE as the world knew it.
There were no writers in the back, no scripts passed around with fancy promos or choreographed matches. This was a battlefield. Real fists. Real grudges. Real pain. What happened in the ring wasn't for show—it was for dominance.
And he was reborn for this.
The memories still lingered—two lives woven together. The old world where Roman was a product of the system. A puppet dancing to the McMahons' tune. Spear here, look intense there, play the hero or villain like the story demanded. But not this time.
Not anymore.
This time, I write the script.
He clenched his fists slowly. Each knuckle popped like a ticking time bomb.
"Yo," Dean muttered, walking over, his eyes scanning the monitor where Ryback was destroying Punk in the ring. "Time to eat, dogs."
Seth stood, removing his earbuds. "Roman, you good?"
Roman tilted his head slightly. "I'm better than good."
His voice was deeper than they expected. More confident. The kind of voice that didn't just speak—it commanded.
Seth chuckled. "Shit, alright then."
They made their way through the hallway, weaving through crewmembers, heading to the stairwell that led to the crowd. The roar from inside the arena hit them like a thunderstorm. Over 14,000 strong. The chants were thunderous.
"Feed! Me! More!"
Ryback had the crowd in the palm of his hand. Punk was laid out, arms limp. It was supposed to be over.
But fate was about to turn.
Roman paused in the shadows of the arena, staring out at the crowd. He could feel it—the pressure, the moment, the weight of what was about to happen.
And he smiled.
Not a performance smile. Not a cocky grin.
A real one.
The kind predators wear right before they pounce.
"Let's f*cking go," he growled.
---
⚔️ Chaos Begins
As Ryback lifted Punk into the air for the Shell Shocked, the lights cut out. A wave of gasps swept through the arena like a cold wind. Then the TitanTron flickered—static, glitching.
Three black-clad figures burst through the crowd, descending the stairs like a pack of wolves.
Michael Cole shouted from commentary. "Wait—WHO IS THAT?!"
Roman hit the ring first, sliding under the ropes with the agility of a panther. Ryback dropped Punk in confusion—but it was too late.
Roman launched forward with impossible speed.
SPEAR.
Not the show-version. Not a clean shoulder-to-gut fall.
This was a missile. Shoulder to ribs. A crunch of bone, a gasp of air, a body folding like it got hit by a truck. Ryback hit the mat and rolled in agony, grabbing at his side. He couldn't breathe.
Seth and Dean pounced next, fists raining down.
Roman stood over Ryback, nostrils flaring, breath slow and steady.
He reached down, grabbed Ryback by the throat, and pulled him up—one-handed.
"What now?" he whispered.
Ryback's eyes were dazed.
Roman smiled again.
And slammed him down with a modified Crucifix Powerbomb—a brutal, precise version that left the monster unconscious.
The crowd erupted.
Shock. Fear. Awe.
Punk crawled over to make the pin.
1…
2…
3.
It was done.
But the message? Just beginning.
---
🎤 Backstage Aftermath
Backstage after the match, chaos reigned. Agents barked into radios, security scrambled, and producers argued with talent.
But Roman?
He walked through the locker room like a king returning from war.
Eyes followed him. Murmurs filled the air.
"Who the hell is this guy?"
"Did you see what he did to Ryback?"
"He's not playing around."
Dean tossed him a water bottle. "Yo, what the f*ck was that spear, bro? Ryback still hasn't moved."
Roman just unscrewed the cap and drank in silence. His tribal tattoos glistened with sweat, the muscles in his neck pulsing from the adrenaline still running wild.
From across the locker room, a woman stepped in.
Raven hair. Pale skin. Dark eyeliner like war paint.
Paige.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes locked on him like a hawk.
"So you're the big dog everyone's barking about."
Roman turned his head slightly, one brow raised.
"I don't bark."
Their eyes met.
Tension. Fire. Something primal.
Paige smirked. "Good. I hate lapdogs."
She walked off—but not without one last glance.
Roman didn't follow. He didn't need to.
He knew she'd be back.
---
🔥 End of Chapter 1