Fade in:

The Firefly Funhouse, but different. The colours have faded. The walls rot from within, and the once-cheerful puppets now hang limp, their faces cracked like porcelain masks.

John Cena hasn't slept in what feels like years. His shirt is torn, his wristbands faded to grey. He stumbles down a hallway that never ends, each step echoing with the chant:

"You can't see me…"

"You can't see me…"

"You can't…"

Suddenly, the hallway morphs. The doors on each side swing open. In every room, Cena sees different versions of himself:

• The Ruthless Aggression rookie, beating opponents senseless.

• The Face of the Company, raising titles over fallen stars.

• The Hollywood Manipulator, smiling on screen while controlling others behind the scenes.

In each room, The Fiend watches from the shadows. Laughing. Feeding. Growing stronger.

Cena screams, "This isn't who I am!"

A voice answers—not Fiend, not Bray.

It's… his own.

From the far end of the corridor, a mirror appears. Huge. Jagged. Ancient. Cena steps forward, trembling.

Inside the mirror isn't his reflection—

—it's Evil Cena, the one from the TV. Dressed in a black suit, championship around his waist, surrounded by puppets now dressed like Vince, Hunter, and Heyman.

Evil Cena smirks.

"You were the hero, John. But heroes are just villains who think they're right."

Cena punches the glass.

Cracks spread like veins—

—but the mirror doesn't break.

Instead, it pulls him in.

Trapped.

Now Cena is inside the screen, forced to watch Evil Cena walk free in the real world, becoming everything he swore he'd never be.

In the Funhouse, The Fiend turns to the camera, tilts his head, and says softly:

"All you had to do… was let me in."

Cut to black.