Disclaimer: I don't own anyone.
Rated: M
Warning(s): Slash, Threesome, Kidnapping, Threats, Self-Harm, etc.

Paul Heyman had been awakened by the sound of a sharp, resounding thud from the hotel room above him. Thinking it was merely a group of overzealous kids who thought that they could get away with fucking all through the night, inconsiderate of the needs of others, he had taken an umbrella from his suitcase and smacked the ceiling a few times, yelling for them to calm down. There was no answer. In fact, there was no sound. It had become so quiet that he could hear the rush of water from the sink upstairs, but no movement from the bathroom…

Not at all concerned about this (which, maybe he should have been, he would later reflect), he climbed back into bed. Sleep came easily. Unconcerned with the goings on above him, he drifted back into an easy slumber. That was, of course, until that resounding thud turned into a fleshy sort of smack. It was the sort of sound that a wet, naked body would make once it hit the tile. What the hell were they doing now? Had the party moved to the shower? Disturbed by the idea, he reluctantly climbed out of bed, donned his umbrella, and entered the bathroom.

He smacked the ceiling with all of the force that he could muster – which, admittedly, wasn't a whole heck of a lot – and was satisfied to find little slivers of plaster start to rain down all around him. The sound had stopped just as soon as it had started, but that didn't stop Heyman from throwing a few expletives their way anyhow. Who the hell did they think they were? It was some ungodly hour of the morning, he didn't even want to look and find out what exact time it was, and they were up there having a grand old time. Learn some manners!

Back in bed, he was easily able to fall back asleep, as no more sounds resounded from that room for several minutes. That was, of course, until the soft drip, drip, drop of water met his ears. Begrudgingly, he cracked one eye open and looked into the bathroom. A wet spot had appeared on the ceiling, where water had undoubtedly leaked out onto the floor in the room above, and it had now started to seep through his ceiling. And, as if to make matters worse, the water was tinged pink. Heyman didn't know why, and he didn't want to know why.

His umbrella having an entirely different purpose now, he made his way back into the bathroom (after putting on shoes, of course, because he didn't want whatever was in the water to infect him in some way) and stared at the ceiling. What was going on up there? And why did it have to happen at all hours of the night – to him, no less? If this had been Brock, he would have stormed up there and taught the couple a bloody lesson they wouldn't soon forget. Unfortunately, Heyman wasn't quite as callous. And, to be honest, he was a little afraid.

So he went back in to the main hotel room, sat down on the bed, and dialed the number for the front desk. "Hello, this is the front desk night shift. My name is Maryse. What can I do for you?"

"Yes, this is Paul Heyman, room 213. I've been having several problems with the couple in the room above me. Disturbances and what not. And now, there is reddish water leaking from my bathroom ceiling." He explained.

"Oh, dear." Heyman rolled his eyes. She must be one of those doe-eyed types, he decided absently. "What would you like me to do about it, sir? Would you like me to send up security?"

"Yes." He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes again. No, he didn't want her to send up security. He'd called her because he was enjoying the sound effects and the blood water in his bathroom. "Yes, that would be wonderful."

"Okay. I will do that for you sir." A pause. "What room did you say that this couple was in?"

If he could have strangled her through the phone, he probably would have. "Room 313, right above mine."

"Okay. Thank you for your call, sir. Security should be up shortly. If you have any more problems, don't hesitate to call. We are available night and day, twenty-four/seven. Thank you for staying with us."

"Of course." Heyman forced a sickly sweet smile. He hung up the phone, "And I never will again."

Thankfully, no more sounds came from the room above head. He fell back onto the bed, thankful that WWE was gracious enough to let him room alone. The last time he attempted to fall asleep was successful. Soon, he forgot about the bloody water leaking from the ceiling in the bathroom, or the disconcerting thuds that he had heard just minutes before that had occurred. Now, only the darkness was left. And he welcomed in happily, because he was unbelievably tired.

The first security officer knocked on the door. There was no response. "Excuse me? Is there anyone in there?" He called out, hoping that, if there was someone inside, they could hear him over the drip, drip, drop of the water.

"Listen, man, I don't think anyone's in there. We should just head back to the office and call it a night." His partner said, his thumbs hooked in the loops of his blue standard-issue pants. "What do you say?"

"I say that Maryse is gonna string us up by our short and curlies if we don't go inside and check it out, at the very least. What if that actually is bloody water? That's a health hazard." The first one pointed out.

The second man frowned. "Both keys are gone, and I'm not gonna be the idiot that kicks down the door. I hope you're not either."

A shrug, followed by a slow trek to the other side of the hall, was the only answer he received. "I've never been known to be the smartest."

His partner held up his hands in a show of innocence. "Whatever. I'm not getting involved, man. I don't want to see some dude's naked ass."

He shot him a casual look. "What if someone's dead in there? You'd be fine just walking away and leaving them to rot?"

A dark look came over his face. "Dude, that's none of my concern! I didn't kill the bastard, now did I? Worst case scenario, the lady fell gettin' out of the shower or something like that. I don't think it was murder."

"Well, we'll never know unless we look. I'm going in, whether you're following me or not." And with that, he charged shoulder-first at the door and watched as it caved underneath his weight a little too easily.

Much to his partner's glee, there were no bare-assed men in the room. In fact, there was nobody there at all. It was clear that someone had been there recently, however, because there was a bottle of alcohol on the table and a half-finished glass beside it. The first man entered inside, carefully stepping over the broken door, his eyes scanning the room to try and find the owner of that half-empty glass. And that's when he saw the bloody towel thrown over the back of one of the elegant, ornate wooden chairs.

The blood was much too fresh to be more than a few hours hold. His stomach rolled as he walked in a large half-circle around the chair, making sure that he wouldn't touch it. In doing that, the bathroom came into view. For the first time, he realized that the water in the bathtub was running. A man was sprawled over the side of the tub, his bleeding arm in the water. He was dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, which were drenched in the bloody water. It was an awful sight.

His head was in the water, but that didn't look to be intentional. The water was cold as ice, so the security officer assumed that he had been trying to stop the bleeding. But when the water stopped draining, his face had ended up under the water and he couldn't breathe. Not even thinking about what he was doing, he took hold of the man's waist and pulled him out of the water. Instantly, he was able to recognize him as Dean Ambrose from the WWE faction 'The Shield'.

When he fell onto the tile floor, his head lolled to the side and water leaked out of the corner of his mouth. The security officer set his head on the man's chest, listening for breathing. It was there, but it sounded kinda like he was gurgling. Pressing his hands down on the man's abdomen, he started to pump firmly. If there was any chance of him surviving, he needed to make sure that he had all of the water out of his lungs. The water left his lungs fairly easily, but he was still semi-conscious and barely holding on.

"Dude!" He called to his partner, who was still lingering in the doorway. He couldn't believe that he had really stayed out there like a coward. "Dude, I need backup! C'mon, man! He's gonna bleed out!"

All of a sudden, he was at his side. "What the hell happened in here? It looks like a massacre."

"I think he may have cut himself, but I don't know for sure." He took off his coat and wrapped it around Dean's arm, forming a sort of tourniquet, trying to stop the bleeding. "I do know, however, that I need you to call 911."

He was already on the phone with them. "911 – What's your emergency?"

"I have a man that's about to bleed out. He's got water in his lungs and his arm has a long cut on it."

"Alright, sir. Can you tell me how his pulse is?" He informed her that it was low, but still present. "What about his breathing? You said that there was water in his lungs." He continued on to say that his breathing was labored, but most of the water was out. "Your location, sir?"

He gave her the name of the hotel. "How long until the ambulance gets here, then?"

"About twenty minutes. Stay on the line, alright, and make sure that he's conscious." And, at that exact moment, Dean forced his hazed eyes open.