Chapter 7: One and Only Warning

"Well, well. What do we have here? Looks like a trio of sorry asses snooping in business that's gonna get someone in deep shit."

No one moves.

Styles, Strowman and Big Cass are paralyzed in horror. All they can do is stare right back at their intruder... One of the only two people that have an actual reason to go in there.

Paul Heyman's just walked in to catch the three of them red-handed, digging through Brock Lesnar's duffle bag.

Smugly, Heyman paces over to Cass, still holding the glass vial of steroids in his hands, clutching it so hard his hands are shaking. In one swift movement, Heyman snatches the vial out of his palm, holding it right in front of his face. "What's this you have here, Mr. Morrissey?" he purrs. "Something that I believe belongs to my client, right? Sees that the three of you were sticking your noses into places they didn't belong in."

Cass says nothing. He simply stares at him, completely at a loss for an excuse.

Heyman simply slaps the bottle back into his hand. "Aha. That's what I thought. Nothing to defend yourself with, eh?"

Styles is the first to speak up, bulking himself up to show he's not intimidated. "Lesnar's been shooting up," he says firmly. "He's been shooting up steroids and that's why he beat the shit out of me. That's why he's acting the way he is. And you thought no one would find out."

Heyman just chuckles sinisterly. "That, Mr. Styles, is where you're wrong," he says. "Naturally, I knew someone in the WWE would find out. And, trust me, I was prepared for it. So while Lesnar might be shooting up steroids in your perspective, to anyone else, none of that could possibly be true. I rigged this to make sure Lesnar would look perfectly innocent to the public, and those who found out? Well, they'd regret that they'd ever found out."

Strowman narrows his eyes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he questions. "How is that supposed to make any sense?"

"Ah, Strowman. It makes plenty of sense," Heyman continues. "You remember, now, don't you? I told you and Bálor personally; I gave out one single warning to take your attention off of my client, and turn it to business that concerns you. If you took that warning to consideration, it would have ended there and we wouldn't be having this conversation." He shrugs. "But alas, it seems you chose to ignore it, and next thing you know, I find you rummaging through my client's personal belongings. And you lost the one chance I gave you to shape up. So now you face the consequences." Smiling smugly, he points to the top corner of the cabinets, opposite of where Cass found Lesnar's duffle bag. "You see that up there, boys? I figured it'd be smart to plant some sort of security camera there... Just in case someone decided to do a search for those steroids there."

The three superstars look to where Heyman points. Sure enough, there happens to be a video camera, sitting there nonchalantly, tiny red light flickering on and off occasionally. Styles swallows hard. Cass bites his lip and grips the vial in his hand a little harder, while Strowman winces like someone's winding up to punch him. All three of them know where Heyman is going with this.

"That camera there has been recording your actions," Heyman continues. "And I plan on using it against you three. Not to show that you were trespassing; that'd be petty, don't you agree?" He grins. "Rather, I think I might edit the footage a bit. Make people see what I want to see. And since you apparently plan to tell someone about Lesnar's enhancement usage, I'll just have to take the attention off of him. Put it somewhere else." With a mysterious look on his face, Heyman shrugs. "Who knows where I'll make everyone look instead? I mean, I have a lot of options." He nods towards Cass. "Mr. Morrissey here is clutching for dear life onto a vial of steroids, isn't he? Perhaps he's been going through a withdrawal... He's very glad to see those drugs." He points back and forth between Styles and Strowman. "Mr. Styles here just can't stop looking into this bag, either. Happy to see those needles and drugs again, huh? Those drugs were making you very vicious in the ring when you had that match against Lesnar those few days ago. He was simply defending himself from your deadly actions, and that's why he beat down on you so hard. And Mr. Strowman, you almost seem worried about all those drug tests in there, don't you? After using all those steroids, how are you supposed to piss clean for the real tests?" That evil grin comes back to Heyman's face. "The public is very gullible, boys. They'll hang on to anything you tell them."

Strowman just glares at him, slowly shaking his head. "Don't you even think about it, Heyman," he growls. "Don't you do it. I'm warning you."

Cass immediately perks up, shaking his head as well. "He can't do that!" he exasperatedly reassures Styles and Strowman. "He just can't! You can't doctor footage like that and expect people to think it's authentic!"

In response, Heyman laughs. "I can't?" he taunts. "I'd like you boys to take a look at these pictures here. Just so you realize I absolutely won't stop at these videos to keep the cameras away from Lesnar. I could just keep going and going, if it came down to it."

Before anyone can say anything further, Heyman pulls out a thin stack of black-and-white photographs. And without a word, he goes through each one, nice and slow so everyone can take it what he made them look like.

The first is of Roman Reigns. To his friends here, it's clear he's receiving his flu shot in the picture; they know he got it because he had been really sick. However, the nurse — Stephen — had been cropped out of the picture... So had Dean Ambrose. The caption printed below reads, "Dean Ambrose gives Roman Reigns his bi-weekly injection of steroids."

The next picture directly follows: it's that of Reigns and Ambrose walking back to the athletic center that same night. They can tell because Reigns has a band-aid over his arm. Ambrose can be seen kicking that discarded needle aside. This one reads, "Dean Ambrose rids of the evidence, in the attempt to detach himself from steroid usage."

The last one Heyman possesses is of Finn Bálor. It looks as though their Irish friend is in the locker rooms at the gym, and he had a hella hardcore workout session. His face is red, sweat drenches his face and hair, and it dampens his gray tank top. He leans his head back on the wall he's sitting against, and his eyes are closed. Chances are, Bálor pulled something in his arm when he was lifting weights, because he holds onto his bicep gently, probably with an ice cube or something in his palm to soothe the ache. Though, that's not what Heyman's agents had to say about it. Rather, according to them, Bálor had been partaking in steroid usage, the caption of the photo reading, "Finn Bálor caught before wrestling practice shooting up steroids. Note how he attempts to nurse the injection sight on his arm. Most likely had a slight overdose, given how much he is sweating, and how exhausted he looks."

Worst part is, neither Ambrose, nor Reigns, nor Bálor are here to defend themselves.

Styles feels himself turning red. "You son of a bitch," he snarls at Heyman. "You are one big son of a bitch, Heyman, you know that? You're gonna regret this so much when Vince finds out what the hell you're doing."

Heyman just looks at him haughtily. "I'm not worried about it, Styles. 'Cause Vince won't be finding out about this," he says. "I won't hold back on leaking these out, one by one; after trespassing and damaging personal property the way you did, you deserve to have your reputations ruined. While I'm doing that, you are to keep your mouth shut about what you found out about Lesnar in here. If I found out that a single one of you peeped, I will send Lesnar out for you. He won't kill you, but you'll be wishing he did. Not only will your career get ruined, but so will your faces. Is that understood by all?"

Before they scurry out like mice that just saved their own lives from a hunting cat, Styles, Strowman and Cass agree to Heyman's terms. They promise they won't tell the higher-ups about what they learned.

They don't want their friends to get hurt.

Now no one has any idea how the hell they're supposed to put Lesnar in his place after finding out that bit of news.