Don't speak, don't make a sound, don't disobey, fight only when we tell you. Those were the rules he had lived by since he was 15 years old. He was 32 now and the best fighter they had, but he wasn't a person. He was an animal, theirs to control, to turn loose on whichever unfortunate soul they wanted. He had killed more people than he could even remember, he was good at it but then again it was kill or be killed and he didn't want to die except for the times when he did.

Times like when the guilt from his kills made him pull his hair out in sorrow and rage. Times like when he responded to an order a little too slowly and they put the cattle prod to him until he was curled up in a little ball, whimpering in a puddle of his own piss. Times like when the guards took turns with him late at night and left him torn open and bleeding.

But there was no way out for him. If he died, they would just do this to someone else and he couldn't let that happen, that was something he wouldn't be able to live with.

So he lived. If this could be called living. His 'home' was a dirty cage with a filthy mattress on the floor. It wasn't even tall enough for him to stand in and was locked at all times. He was allowed two bathroom breaks a day and if he needed more, he was to use a bucket in the corner. He was allowed a freezing cold shower after a workout and the clothing he wore were little better than rags. He had no personal belongings, nothing to call his own. When they bought him from the orphanage, all he had was the clothes on his back and his school books. The books were promptly thrown away and his training had begun.

Now he waited. Today was another fight and they would be coming for him. He sat in his cage listening to the near constant drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet, wondering if this would be it, the fight that he wouldn't win. He knew one day there would be one, someday someone would beat him and his suffering would be over and someone elses would begin.

He heard footsteps and then the lights came on, blinding him temporarily. "Get up Big Dog, it's time to go." A voice he hated said, and he did what he was told, knowing that tonight would end in death.

Seth Rollins was milling around the exclusive underground fighting ring waiting. He liked fighting but this was a little more hardcore than he was used to but he had to be here. Seth was an investigative reporter and he had gotten a lead that things weren't all they seemed here. It wasn't the illegal betting that bothered him but the rumors of secretive death matches that he couldn't ignore. He watched match after match but they all ended the same with two people emerging beaten but very much alive.

The final match was about to start and the fighters entered the cage. The first guy entered. He wasn't too muscular but more wiry and he looked like he could fight. He had skull tattoos all down both arms and close cropped brown hair and was posing and playing to the crowd. His cockiness might be his downfall. His opponent entered the cage. He was... gorgeous. Long black hair framed the most beautiful face Seth had ever seen. He was about 6'3, packed with muscles but not so much to make him look slow. This man emitted danger and he looked like a warrior. He stood in the corner ignoring the audience and wrapped tape around his fists.

The man looked up and their eyes locked. Seth gasped as he looked into those dark, haunted eyes. He'd never seen so much pain and torment on someone's face before and he had a feeling that he would never forget it. As quickly as he'd seen that emotion, the man's eyes went blank and he looked back at his hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen it's time for our final bout of the night." The announcer said. "Introducing first, the ladies love him and the men want to beat him, 'The Viper' Randy Orton." The crowd cheered The Viper while he did a dramatic pose. "And now, everyone's favorite ass kicker, 'The Big Dog' Roman Reigns."

The crowd went wild but Roman didn't even acknowledge them.

The 'fight' was over very quickly. As soon as the bell rang, Roman charged Randy knocking him off his feet and to the mat. He pummeled him with vicious looking punches until he was unconscious and the crowd loved it. Seth saw the blood dripping off Roman's fists and it made him feel sick.

Roman got off Randy and looked at his bloody fist and Seth was sure that he could see sadness on the big man's face for a split second before that detached look replaced it.

Seth's heart was racing. He was sure that Roman not only hated fighting, but didn't even want to be here. So why was he?

Roman went to stand with a group of men that slapped him on the back in congratulations and Seth made sure to look at them all so the camera hidden in his black rimmed glasses could pick up their faces. Before the fighting began he had already surveyed the entire room looking for anything suspicious, but he never found anything. His partner Cesaro was checking out the outside of the building, looking for other entrances or anything that shouldn't be there.

People gradually started leaving but Seth stayed as long as he could without looking suspicious. Roman and his friends had slipped out while Seth wasn't looking and he was sure Cesaro was finished with his investigation so he went out the door and headed for his car.

Roman lay in his cage later that night remembering the face of the man he had just killed. He was shorter but thickly muscled with short black hair and a full beard. He seemed to be European and at the beginning he looked confident. He looked terrified later, when it became apparent that he just wasn't strong or fast enough to beat Roman. He had snapped his neck, he always tried to make their deaths as painless as possible

Roman didn't escape the match unscathed. The matches were fought in a pit that was lined with barbed wire so he had dozens of cuts on his back and arms not to mention the hits and bruises that the man had managed to inflict on him. His body hurt but his heart hurt more. He looked up at the wall where he had scratched a mark for every man he had killed in the last 17 years. 84 scratches lined the walls and he reached his arm up and scratched another mark into the wall with his fingernail. He wanted to cry for the man but after 17 years, he didn't think he had anymore tears left.

He thought instead of the pretty man with the glasses he had seen at the exhibition match. He didn't look like the kind of people that typically attended those matches. He didn't seem as bloodthirsty as they were and he looked sad when he saw what he did to Randy. He wondered how the man would look if he had seen what he had done at the death match. Would those soulful brown eyes cry? They would certainly look at him like the monster he is, which was no less than what he deserved.

He rolled over and tried to sleep, at least the guards would leave him alone tonight, they would be off celebrating all the money he made them by doing the only thing he did well... killing.

* If you couldn't tell this story is going to be a little darker than my others so read at your own risk.