Backstage was buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Crew members darted between crates and light rigs, voices echoing in rapid bursts through earpieces, and yet somehow, in the chaos, Cody Rhodes was standing completely still in front of a mirror—fussing with the lapel of his jacket like it was about to give a TED Talk. “Cody,” I said, arms crossed as I leaned against one of the crates nearby. “If you fix that thing any harder, it’s gonna walk out there and cut a promo by itself.”
He glanced at me through the mirror, lifting an unimpressed brow. “Sorry, I didn’t realize the fashion police was on duty tonight.”
“I’m not the fashion police. I’m the sarcasm department,” I shot back, smirking. “And I’m telling you right now, no one in the audience is gonna notice if your jacket’s off by a quarter inch. They’re all gonna be blinded by your dramatic cape anyway.”
He turned to face me fully, hand on his chest. “Excuse you. It’s a cloak, thank you very much.”
“Oh, my bad,” I said, holding up my hands. “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness of Cloakland.”
Cody snorted and shook his head, but the grin on his face betrayed him. “You done?”
“Not even close,” I said, tossing him his mic. “But you’re up in sixty seconds, so I’ll save the rest for after you put on your Shakespeare show out there.”
He huffed a little laugh and nodded, adjusting his gloves. “Alright. Showtime.”
As soon as his theme—“Kingdom”—hit, the entire energy of the building shifted. I felt it in my chest, a low thrum that matched the rhythm of the music. The crowd exploded as we stepped through the curtain and made our way down the ramp together. Cody had the mic in hand, and as always, he carried himself like he belonged in the spotlight. Confident. Grounded. Poised for war. I walked beside him, arms loose at my sides, eyes scanning everything ahead like a bodyguard, even though this was technically his moment.
Inside the ring stood Seth Rollins, decked out in one of his usual fever-dream outfits, sunglasses indoors and all, flanked by his crew like a cartoonish supervillain squad. Cody stepped into the ring like it was his house, because really, it kind of was. He raised the mic. “Well, well, well… if it isn’t the Monday Night Megalomaniac,” Cody said, voice smooth as butter. “Didn’t realize this was open mic night for delusional narcissists, but—here we are.”
Seth tilted his head and let out that signature laugh of his. “Ahhh, Cody. Always so dramatic. Are you sure you’re not auditioning for Broadway after this run?”
Cody grinned. “I’ll leave the singing to you, Seth. You’ve got the range of a car alarm.”
I stayed a step behind him, arms crossed, watching the exchange like a hawk. I didn’t say anything—I didn’t need to. My job wasn’t to steal the spotlight. It was to watch. And Seth… Seth always said more with a glance than most people could with a speech. Cody and Seth locked eyes, tension spiking between them like electricity. It was the kind of silence that made the crowd lean in, waiting for the fuse to hit the powder.
Then, Seth leaned forward and whispered something to Cody—too low for me to hear. I immediately narrowed my eyes and angled my head toward them, trying to read Cody’s expression. Cody didn’t react much. He just flicked his gaze to me, and without saying a word, he mouthed, Later.
I gave a tiny nod, subtle and sharp. Got it.
Before the tension could boil over, a new sound exploded through the arena—
“YEET!”
The crowd came alive again as Jey Uso’s theme blasted through the speakers. I turned instinctively toward the entrance ramp—but Jey, being Jey, wasn’t coming from there. Cody started grinning even before we saw him. “Over-under on how many security guys he yeets past?” Cody muttered to me.
“Five, easy,” I replied, scanning the crowd. And then there he was—Jey Uso, bounding through the sea of fans, slapping hands, and shouting like he was the storm. He was eating it up, the energy, the love, the anticipation. The fans roared, and I couldn’t help the smile that crept up on my face.
“Tell me he doesn’t live for that,” I said, laughing.
“He is that,” Cody said proudly, stepping back beside me as Jey finally slid into the ring. Jey landed on his feet, mic already in hand, and with all the swagger in the world, he looked around the ring like a king returned to his throne. “YEET!” he shouted. Without missing a beat, Cody and I both threw our fists in the air.
“YEET!” we echoed, and the crowd followed.
Jey grinned wide and pointed at us. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
I bumped Cody’s arm lightly. “Okay, okay. I see why you’re so attached to him.”
“He grows on you,” Cody replied, grinning. “Like a hype-infected fungus.”
I laughed and moved a bit closer to Jey, leaning in. “If this promo turns into a full-on yeet choir, I’m demanding royalties.”
“You’d deserve ’em,” Jey said with a wink. The three of us stood there, shoulder to shoulder, ready to go to war and still laughing like it was just another Saturday night at a bar. But even through the humor and the lights and the crowd, I kept that earlier exchange with Seth tucked in the back of my mind.
Because while we were having fun now, I knew we were walking into a battlefield tomorrow. And nothing—not even cloaks and chaos—was going to stop me from watching Cody and Jey’s backs. Not for a second.
The moment Jey’s music faded out, the electricity in the arena simmered down—but only just that. I could still feel the vibrations of the crowd in my chest, their excitement pulsing through every corner of the building. The three of us stood in the ring—me, Cody, and Jey—united, shoulder to shoulder, like a damn force of nature. Jey gave me that lopsided grin, still riding the high of his entrance, and I bumped my knuckles lightly against his arm. “You ran through that crowd like a man being chased by a swarm of bees,” I teased.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Jey shot back with a wink. “I was just warmin’ up.”
Cody laughed beside us, the mic already in his hand. “Alright, alright,” he said with a grin before raising it to address the WWE Universe. “Now, last Friday—let’s talk about that circus, shall we?”
The crowd leaned in, hanging on his every word. I crossed my arms and stood just a bit behind him, my eyes constantly scanning—not just the fans, but the ramp, the stage, everywhere. I’d learned the hard way to expect interruptions, especially when the truth was about to be spoken. Cody’s voice shifted from playful to sharp. “John Cena and Logan Paul strutted out here thinking they could intimidate us. Cena—who’s spent the last year pretending he’s still the backbone of this company—said we were standing in his shadow.”
I scoffed under my breath, muttering, “Some shadow. Dude’s been playing superhero and filming shampoo commercials.”
Jey smirked, clearly catching it, and Cody glanced back at me with a quick grin before continuing. “Well, here’s the thing,” Cody said, lifting his chin. “We’re not living in anyone’s shadow. Not Cena’s. Not The Rock’s. Not anyone’s. This—” he gestured between the three of us, “—isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about what’s next. And if Cena doesn’t like it, he’s welcome to—”
“BAH-DA-DA-DAAAAAAA!”
The arena exploded as John Cena’s music hit. A wave of boos and divided cheers rippled across the stands as the man himself strode onto the stage, mic in hand and smugness practically dripping off him. “Here we go,” I muttered, stepping slightly in front of Cody without even thinking about it. My body just moved that way—protective. Ready. I could already see that old fire in Cena’s eyes, that performative superiority he wore like armor.
He entered the ring with that same artificial calm he always used before delivering a low blow disguised as wisdom. “Cody. Jey. Angel,” Cena started, voice heavy with sarcasm. “You three sure like to soak in the cheers, huh? Look at you. Drenched in delusion. Dressed like heroes. But let’s be real…”
He turned to face us fully. “You’re just John Cena wannabes.”
The crowd roared, some cheering the line, others booing it hard. Cody’s jaw ticked. Jey let out an incredulous chuckle. And me? I stepped forward, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. “Wannabes?” I echoed. “Oh, Johnny. I think your ego’s cutting off the blood supply to your brain again.”
The crowd erupted with laughter and “oooooh”s, but Cena ignored it, smirking. “Cody’s trying to be me. Jey’s trying to be me. And you?” He looked me up and down with fake amusement. “You’re like if a hot topic mannequin and a motivational poster had a baby.”
“Ouch,” I said dryly. “That supposed to hurt? ‘Cause it sounds like you spent all week writing that and still landed on ‘meh.’”
Jey tilted his head, stepping beside me. “Yo, John. If we’re all tryin’ to be you… then why you so pressed about it?”
“Maybe ‘cause we’re doing it better,” Cody added, stepping forward, eyes locked with Cena’s now. The tension was rising—thick, hot, palpable. You could almost feel the ropes trembling from it.
Cena wasn’t backing down. “You think you're better than me, Cody?”
Cody nodded once, sharp and steady. “No, John. I know I am.”
OOOOOOOOOH. I smirked and gave Cody a slow clap behind him. Jey nodded, grinning like a devil. Cena took a slow, measured step forward, pacing like a lion sizing up prey. His expression hardened, that trademark smirk twisting into something uglier.
“You know what your problem is, Cody?” he said, voice laced with venom. “You’re trying so hard to be something your father never was. Dusty was a legend, sure—but he never made it to the top. And deep down, you’re scared you won’t either.”
The air in the ring went still. My breath caught mid-inhale. I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I was standing between Cody and Cena, eyes locked on John with a fire in my chest that burned hotter than the arena lights above us. My smile was gone—completely wiped from my face.
“You don’t get to talk about Dusty like that,” I said, my voice sharp and low, every syllable slicing the tension like a blade. Cena didn’t flinch, but his smugness faltered for just a split second. I didn’t let up.
“Cody isn’t trying to be his father,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Cody—his expression tight, but his eyes steady, proud. “Cody is carrying everything his father believed in—and then some. Dusty built dreams. Cody’s living one. And if you think for a second that Dusty wouldn’t be up there, grinning ear to ear watching his son carve his own legacy—you’re even more out of touch than I thought.”
Jey gave a quiet, “Damn,” behind me, and Cody, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I turned back to Cena and took one more step closer, chest to chest now. “Dusty would be proud of Cody because he didn’t skip steps. He built his name from the ground up. And he did it without stealing a spotlight that wasn’t his.”
Jey leaned in from behind me, voice low but audible. “She right, Uce. You crossed a line.”
“You talk about fear?” I continued, “The only thing I see in you is a man terrified the world’s already moved on without him. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back. Hoping we’ll need you again. Say what you want about me, but if you’re gonna use Dusty’s name like a weapon—you don’t belong in this ring.”
The crowd popped at that line, and even Cody blinked at me like he hadn’t expected me to go there. But I didn’t waver. Cena’s jaw tightened, his bravado cracking beneath the weight of silence. For once, he had nothing to say. Cody still hadn’t spoken. His eyes were locked on Cena, burning. But when I glanced back at him, he gave me a quiet nod. Grateful. Grounded.
But something felt off. I scanned the ramp, my eyes darting over the crowd, the barricade, the commentary table, the shadows by the stage. Cena was in the ring, spewing the usual ego-fueled garbage, his presence sucking the air out of the space—but Logan?
Where the hell was Logan?
That’s when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t hear anything. I felt it. Instinct screamed in my chest. I spun around—just in time to see Logan Paul, glint of brass in his hand, sprinting toward Jey with his signature smirk twisted into something meaner. “Jey, move!” I shouted, but I didn’t wait for him to react.
I lunged. My shoulder slammed into Logan’s midsection mid-charge, the sound of our collision echoing across the arena like a gunshot. We hit the mat hard, bodies tumbling, and the crowd exploded. I didn’t stop. I drove my fists into his sides, keeping him down as long as I could. “You think you’re clever?” I growled. “You think you’re gonna lay a hand on him while I’m breathing?!”
Logan bucked beneath me with a snarl and grabbed a fistful of my hair before tossing me off. We both scrambled to our feet, but he moved faster. Too fast. He caught me under the ribs and lifted me like I weighed nothing—then slammed me down back-first onto the steel steps.
White-hot pain exploded through my spine, stealing the air from my lungs. I crumpled, knees hitting the ground, gasping. My arms shook as I tried to push myself back up. “Angel!” Jey’s voice reached me, but he was already turning—Logan was going after him again.
“No,” I croaked, trying to rise. Too late. Logan rushed him, this time landing a stiff shot with those damn brass knuckles. Jey staggered, and Logan tackled him down in a heap, fists flying. I looked up just in time to see Cena catch Cody with a surprise Attitude Adjustment, slamming him hard enough to rattle the ring.
“No, no, no—get up, Cody,” I muttered, forcing my legs to cooperate. My body screamed, but I staggered upright. Just as Cena grabbed his title belt, eyes locked on Cody—who was rising slowly, one knee planted, breathing heavy. I didn’t think. I moved. I threw myself between them just as Cena swung the gold.
The impact sent me crashing to the mat. Stars burst behind my eyes as pain lanced down my side. The belt hit harder than I expected—it wasn’t just metal. It was fury. Cena’s fury. I gasped, clutching my ribs, blinking back tears as Cena crouched down next to me with that smug, unshakable smirk. “Should’ve stayed down, sweetheart,” he taunted. “You’re in way over your head.”
“Go to hell,” I spat, chest heaving. “I’ll dig the hole myself.”
Before I could do anything more, Logan grabbed Jey and hurled him beside me like a discarded toy. Jey hit the mat hard, groaning, trying to turn over but barely managing to lift his head. “Jey…” I reached out with a shaky hand, brushing his arm. “You okay?”
“Been better,” he mumbled, voice slurred with pain. I barely had a second to register that before Cena caught Cody again. This time, he lifted him with a cruel twist and slammed him down into another Attitude Adjustment—right next to me.
“Cody!” I gasped, reaching out on the other side, my fingers curling around his wrist. He was breathing hard, wincing, but he didn’t move. We lay there in a broken triangle—Cody on one side, Jey on the other, me between them—gasping, aching, still conscious but barely holding on. The crowd had fallen into stunned silence, broken only by the jeers and scattered shouts from the fans who still believed we’d get back up.
Cena stood over us, brushing off his shoulder like he’d just finished a warm-up set. Logan leaned on the ropes, grinning like the devil himself. “Aww, how cute,” he mocked. “Family nap time already?”
I glared up at them through the pain. “This isn’t over,” I rasped. “Not even close.”
Cena tilted his head at me with an exaggerated shrug. “Then get up, Angel. Show me.”
But he didn’t wait. He dropped the mic with a clatter, and the two of them backed out of the ring, grinning and mocking the crowd as they raised their arms like they’d already won everything. But they hadn’t.
Because even as I lay there, broken between the two men I would go to war for, I knew one thing for certain. They didn’t win tonight. They just made the mistake of waking the wrong guardian.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.