Once we were out of the clinic, I was untouchable. I walked like nobody could touch me, like I was a sister of the brothers of destruction. Without realizing at first, almost everyone was hesitant to talk to me – hesitant, to the point of almost being scared. I either didn't say a word when someone asked something or gave them the only form of response I felt like giving at the time – shoot them a hard, penetrating stare.

I was the tiniest person in the roster (if you didn't acknowledge Hornswoggle ofcourse) and it was funny to think that some guys, who were practically giants with clouds of muscles, wouldn't try to bother me when I was in no mood. I liked it that way…Hehehe.

Nonplussed but a bit impetuous, I got in the car and settled myself on the driver's seat. I started the engine, and almost pressed my foot on the gas pedal to accelerate when Cody opened the door and got in right next to me.

In between heavy pants, he said, "What's the deal with your being in a hurry?" he asked tersely, his breathing unsteady as though he'd jogged around Santorini.

"I'm not in a hurry, I just walk fast," I replied coolly. "I thought by now you'd be used to that," I added, still unconscious of the way I sounded. I locked the doors.

"What answer is that?" I saw Cody's face contort into a questioning-trying-to-stifle-a-frustrated-grin-exp ression. I knew that look so well; Cody Garrett Runnels was irritated. "You were about 3,447 footsteps ahead of me." There was his exaggeration again. "I told you to wait just a minute because Cole had to talk to me real quick, I stopped and thought you did, too. When I looked around you freakin' started the car already," he finished, the slight irritation already gone from his face.

I paused for a few moments as if to think of what to respond. The truth was, I totally forgot that I was walking with Cody in tow, and that I was supposed to drive to the hotel with him that night. (Well I practically kinda always drove to the hotel with him every night after a show.) I didn't know what was going on with me that time.

I looked straight ahead before answering, "I didn't hear you, sorry," I dismissed him quickly as I shifted the gear and stepped on the gas pedal.

We'd sped up for only about a few feet ahead when someone started banging on our car, a hand tapping on the passenger's door at the back, making me step on the brake pedal and do a sharp and heavy break. I looked to the sidemirror and saw Daniel, desperately trying to open the locked door.

Until then, I hadn't realized how hot-headed I was. That was what was happening to me. And the thing was, I also forgot that goat-face was with us two. Or worse, I kinda forgot that the three of us had been doing this for a few years now and we never went without the other… we three stuck together. We're a crazy solid trio, remember? I mentally palmed my face.

"Really Jill, what's the deal?" Cody laughed nervously. Yeap, maybe something must be really wrong with me at the time. I gave no response, and quickly unlocked the doors to let Daniel in.

"What the effin' F, Jill? Trying to leave me behind?" Daniel threw in his bags and took his seat.

I did not answer. I locked the doors and finally sped down the road. The ride was silent, but even from my peripheral view and through the rear-view mirror I caught Cody and D-Bry eyeing each other curiously, as though they'd just gotten themselves in a cab that was driven by some psycho murderer with some really devious modus operandi.

In our hotel room, the two fell asleep right when they plopped down on the king-size bed. They didn't even change. From the couch where I was playing on my PSP I watched my friends as they caught the only sleep they could before another busy day started. And then I remembered the incident earlier and how I had treated them quite badly, almost leaving them behind. Involuntarily, my face muscles moved to form a pouty puppy face at them. I felt bad for acting the way I had, only because I got slightly wounded by Dean Ambrose. I should've never let my emotions take over me like that, let alone let my actions affect the people that surrounded me. It was just wrong.

These thoughts circulated through my head. Suddenly, the scene in the clinic after the show earlier that night popped in my mind. And then I remembered how everything felt again. The coldness I got from him. I still was annoyed by it. Even so, I managed to search his videos on YouTube through my phone. Sometimes I didn't get why I decided to do certain things.

I clicked on one of his videos, entitled "I'm just a sick guy", a post-match promo of his. And then I saw Jon Moxley go wild and epic. Moxley. Jon Moxley.

In the video, Jon was basically rambling, still in his ring gear and the blood on his face had dried up after his match with Drake Younger for the IPW world title. He was terrorizing this short-haired girl in a really psychotic way. He had a fork in his hand; he had a coat where the red letters "MOX" were spelled when his back was turned. He was… I didn't know anymore. I'd never seen a wrestler's promo that overflowed with so much epicness. He was amazing. My smile…it was uncontrollable throughout watching the video. Without a doubt, despite the coldness he'd delivered to me earlier, Dean Ambrose…or Jon Moxley was still able to bring delight to me in a really unexplainable way.

When I'd finally decided that I really couldn't put myself to sleep, I went out of the room. I had absolutely no idea where I was headed to. I just felt like I needed to take a walk or something. I just had this feeling. I couldn't even pinpoint it. Sometimes it was really frustrating how I couldn't sleep when I wanted to. I was in my sky blue pajamas, Punk's loose Best in the World shirt, and slippers as I trod the halls of the hotel. I couldn't decide where to go. I was so indecisive that it came to the point that I insanely played with the hotel's elevator and stayed there for several long minutes just going up and down on all floors of the hotel. I was dazed.

Eventually, and thankfully, I got tired of my own little game and decided to go back to our room to see if I could finally sleep. I hit the '6' button as I let the elevator exalt me up to the floor where our room was.

I stepped out as the elevator doors opened. I began walking, until I noticed something was amiss. Stopping my trudge, I looked up on the wall and the elegant sign read '6th floor'. What an idiot. I realized that our room was back down on the fifth floor. I couldn't believe I went one floor higher. Figuring I didn't need the elevator, I proceeded to the stairs.

Just when I was about to set my foot on one of the steps that led down to the fifth floor, I heard voices in my head…they counseled me, they understood… They – oh wait. I wasn't Orton. And the voices weren't in my head. They actually came from that hallway on my right, a few feet away from where I stood.

They belonged to two men. They were laughing. They sounded… drunk. Those voices belonged to Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose.

My sluggish state abruptly changed and I was more wakeful than ever. I slowly creeped closer to where their voices were coming from, stopping and pressing my back against the wall as I snooped.

I'd never heard a more senseless conversation in my entire life. They were drunk, and laughing, and just poking fun at each other. In a way it really was adorable. I leaned closer to listen more, and I heard Seth tell him that he was going back to his room. I heard Dean playfully plead him to hang around there with him a little longer, but Seth just laughed at him, and I heard him leave Dean there, still playfully begging for him to stay. What an adorable bumbling fool.

The hallway fell silent. But Dean was still there, as I could hear a bottle or something glassy clinking against a table. I did not know where the wind came from, but for some reason it just blew softly across my direction and it carried his scent with it. I involuntarily sniffed it. Now I was tempted to try to take a sneak peek of him from the edge of the wall I leaned against.

Slowly and very slightly, I poked my head to look at him sneakily. On one of the many couches that lined the walls of the hallway, there he was, sitting woozily, looking up at the ceiling. On the end table by his couch was an empty bottle of some liquor. He was still in his jeans. His hands were buried in the pockets of his black jacket. He looked like he was at a really dreamy state.

I was enjoying secretly watching him like that.

Without warning, he abruptly looked to his right, in my direction. It really alarmed me and I couldn't explain how I so quickly poked my head back to conceal myself behind the wall.

But even with that really swift move, I half-believed that our eyes met for a quick split-second before I could hide myself from his view.

Fudge. I think he saw me.

My heart was racing and the only thing I could think of was to get out of there real quick before he could even acknowledge my presence. I slowly lifted a leg to take a step.

"Hey, who's over there?" Dean called. I froze. Should I show up? "Is anyone there?" His drunken voice resounded through the halls. The jumpiness in my heart increased.

I tried hard to just ignore him, and I finally elected to begin walking away.

"Jill," his voice called. I turned to ice. How the fudge does he know it's me? I couldn't have been more jumpy. "Jill," he called the second time, his voice sounding lethargic. I regretted that I hung around there to spy on him.

I nervously stepped into his view after a few seconds. I looked at him timidly. "H-Hi," my voice came croaky. He just stared at me through a curtain of his messed up dirty blonde hair falling over his eyes. I was waiting for his response, but his icy blue eyes continued to delve into mine from afar. The awkward silence made me feel stupid and for a second there I thought he was gonna give me the cold shoulder again.

To both my surprise and relief, he flashed that dimply smile. "It's 1:30 AM. Why are you still up?" His inebriated tone was consistent, but then again, even at his normal sober state he kinda did always sound drunk. It was his natural voice, and ofcourse I found it adorable. It was almost hard to tell if he was drunk or sober 'cause either way, he had that intoxicated tone to his voice.

"I have a hard time sleeping tonight," I replied.

"Come 'er." He patted the empty space of the couch on his right. I slowly walked toward him. Sitting next to him, I saw the fresh dash of red wound under his eye. Immediately, I was reminded of the abrasion on his left arm. His black jacket concealed it.

Naturally, I wasn't a transparent person. So even though I was going nuts inside as I sat next to him, it didn't show completely as I managed to keep myself collected atleast on the outside. His drunken stare was unyielding, and when I couldn't find a way to break the silence, I simply gave him an unsure tight-lipped smile.

"What are you doing walking around here late at night?" Dean asked.

"I already told you, I couldn't sleep. Why are you still up?"

He glanced at the empty bottle on the table beside him before gazing back at me. He grinned impishly. When I understood what he was trying to say, I nodded simply.

"How did you know it was me?" I chewed the inside of my cheek.

"There's no other diva in this company that looks like a highschool student," he playfully mocked.

I gave him a fake wounded look trying to play along, knitting my brows and faking a scowl.

"Kidding." His hand reached for my chin softly. I felt a thousand frissons go through my veins, pumping my blood really high. It made me quickly break eye contact with him out of bashfulness. When I looked back at him, he was smiling, his dimple showing.

I realized he was being the comfortable Dean again. Suddenly, I was reminded of the cold and unfriendly Dean during the clinic incident. Could it be that he just drank too much that the alcohol actually helped him to be more approachable, responsive, and pleasant this time? I had been sitting here with him for a couple minutes already and he hadn't shown any sign of aloofness so far.

I was thinking about asking him how his wounds were, but decided against it, assuming that if I brought it up, he'd turn all unfriendly on me again.

"You never drink?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "What do you guys love most about drinking?"

"It, uhh… erases reality?" He pushed his lips outwardly, his eyes softly puncturing mine.

"How so?"

"We tend to forget pain momentarily, that's one. I tend to forget about the pain. About reality." He paused to crack his neck. "My first drink ever was way back when I was fourteen, when I didn't want to see my mom anymore." His eyes were focused on the wall across us, his face deadpan. This was when I started thinking how drunk he really could be at the time, considering that he'd just begun randomly telling me about something very personal to him.

Disguising the hurt I felt upon his words, I nonchalantly asked, "Why did you not want to see her anymore?" The guy I found most mysterious was going to tell me stories about his life.

"Because it hurt to see her," he matched the nonchalance I threw him.

I didn't understand him. "Why?"

He paused for a second, probably collecting his thoughts. "It hurt to see her ever so tolerantly be a helpless prey to hungry, horny perverts."

My throat tightened, and my face pulled into a heavy frown. "What about your... your father? Where is he?"

"I never knew my father. But I've always known that my mother wouldn't have ended up the way she did if my father stuck around." He licked his lips. "I had spent my life in a really lowly shanty we called 'home' and in the club where mom strived hard to earn money, to be able to feed me three times a day and seven days a week."

I was flinching at every word he said as I tried to imagine the horrid childhood he went through.

"At fourteen, I got really sick to the back teeth of having my mom continue what she did for the two of us to survive the cruel life we lived. I wanted her to stop. I wanted her to stop having to willingly like to be fucked by various men of all types and ages. I wanted her to stop mortifying herself. I wanted to help her, but was too young to be of any sort of help. I started stealing." He rubbed his drowsy eyes with his fingers.

I breathed in heavily as I listened to him intently.

"I'd wounded her, then. She told me she didn't want me to steal. She was crying to me that night. She was crying for her son who'd turned out to be some teenage criminal who fought in the streets for a few bucks and meat. She told me she was sorry, that it was all her fault. And then I started crying. We were crying together." He began to sniff heavily, but I couldn't be sure that he was about to cry. "That night, I promised her I'd be a better son for her. I didn't assure her I would be a perfect son, but I said I'd be better. I promised I'd end all the horror in our life one day."

I couldn't believe how Dean's story telling was able to play with my emotions right then and there. Just by listening to him tell the story of his deprived life, I felt my heart gain all pounds of Mark Henry's body.

"Looks to me like you just fulfilled your promise," I said reassuringly, offering him a sympathetic smile.

He returned a weak smile. "I guess. I have one new goal, though. I want to be the triumphant bastard my father would wish he never left." I had to laugh at this, despite the small wincing pain I felt. I couldn't blame him for feeling the way he felt for his father, but I just wished he'd decided to be satisfied with making her mother feel the most loved woman in the world. "My mother and I, it has always been the two of us since day one. We didn't have a lot, but having her was always enough. I love her so much. She's the best."

I delighted at the thought of Dean's great love for his mother.

"I'm more than sure she's very proud of you." I smiled once more.

"I'll never stop making her proud. I hate myself for falling into senseless street fighting sometimes and it really saddens her, but I just can't help it sometimes you know? I grew up never knowing how to back down in a fight."

I gathered my thoughts, and I was reminded of that jerk-disguised-as-a-fan who attacked him.

"Hey, how are your wounds?" I swiftly asked.

"I can feel them healing sooner," his hand went to softly rub his left arm. "Jake. That stupid son of an uncle-fucker."

"Jake?" I arched a brow.

"Jake. The moron who attacked me after the show. His name's Jake." He ruffled his already disheveled hair. "You see during my life before becoming a wrestler, Jake, his younger brother and I were close buds. Until one day, when his brother and I were in his car, we met an accident. Jake was blaming me, saying that since I was the one who was into wrestling, I was violent and that it was my fault. The shattered pieces of the car's window dug into my right arm, I thought it had to be amputated. And my mouth was nearly split from the impact. All Jake's brother got was a broken nose."

"What an imbecile!" I shook my head in great disbelief. "Seriously?! I can't believe the guy!"

"Several long years later and the uncircumcised bitch still can't get over the whole thing!" Dean laughed heartily at his drunken state.

"Now that I'm hearing this, I really wish you never let him walk anymore." I managed to smile. "You're feeling better, though?"

"Like a million bucks." Dean Ambrose playfully winked at me and my heart melted and turned into vapor at that point. This silly drunk adorable man is killing me softly. When I started to feel the heat rushing in my cheeks, I mentally prayed to God to make me stop from blushing. Not in front of him. Please. Sexy-adorable-drunk-Dean-Ambrose was sexy-adorable-drunk. It was lovely.

"Good," I said simply, still mentally focused on praying for God to prevent my blush.

"Hey, sorry about earlier tonight after the show." I was surprised to hear him bring this up at the time. I gaped at him slightly, as though he had just said the biggest insult to my face. He cracked his neck and stretched his arms, his right arm resting on top of the backrest of the sofa so it almost reached me. "I just didn't want you to think of me as some scary criminal."

"Why would you think I'd think that?" I frowned.

"Because a lot of girls have done so," Dean replied, his tone very blunt, without any hint of lies. He was indeed drunk. In vino veritas.

"Well, I didn't. I wouldn't judge you for it. No one has the right to." My stare desperately tried to send sincerity towards him.

"Really? Even when you've just found out now that I was a thug as a teenager trying to fight for meals?" The glimmer of delight flashed in his eyes when he asked me this.

"Yes, even so," I reassured him. His question brought his I'm just a sick guy promo video back into my head. I could remember how he rambled there. I remembered his exact line: I fought for the belt tonight just like I fight for every meal of my entire life, and it got stolen from me just like a lot of meals have by big scary dogs. It seemed that Dean Ambrose… or Jon Moxley, kind of patterned his promos after the real-life experiences he went through. No wonder why it was just so full of impact every frickin' time he cut a promo!

"Even so, Jon." I smiled as I emphasized on his oldschool name. I had to laugh at the look he gave me when he heard me call him 'Jon'. "What?" I asked with a grin when he just kept gawking at me. "I kinda like it, you know? Jon Moxley," I stressed.

"I'm Jonathan Good by birth, though."

Wow. Of all names. Good. Good was his real last name. The irony. I shrugged nonchalantly.

A mischievous smile surprisingly started spreading across his face. "You like my indie name, though?" He scooted closer, until the space between us on the couch was gone. I wondered why I couldn't keep myself from almost freezing everytime he did something like this.

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah. It's madsick. It's awesome, really, Jon."

After a few moments of silence, his outstretched arm reached for the side of my face. The skin contact was spine-tingling.

"Thank you, Jill." He tucked a few of my hairstrands behind my ear. I looked at him to see the innocent face of a man who told me nothing but pieces of truth tonight.

His transparent blue eyes allowed me to gain access to his soul, and I saw that deep down in it, Jonathan Good was a goodhearted man molded by the darkness of his past. These eyes were complemented by those thin lips that were curved into a sincere smile now – the same lips that spewed out words of reality that I absorbed.

I got to know Jon more, and I just couldn't explain the happiness it brought.

I couldn't have been more grateful for this night.