Fade in.

The Funhouse is still. Not quiet—still. As if time itself has paused to hold its breath.

John Cena stumbles through the rotting remnants of the children's playroom. The walls are cracked. The puppets hang limp, lifeless, their button eyes staring through him. Bits of old catchphrases echo faintly in the static—"Never Give Up," "You Can't See Me"—now twisted into mockery.

He finds himself back in the center room, the stage where it all began.

The Fiend is waiting.

Cena drops to his knees. No more fight. No more pride. Just one word, barely audible.

"Please."

He crawls forward, trembling.

"You have to fix this. I don't care what it takes. I… I give up. I let you in."

A long pause.

The Fiend tilts his head slowly… then suddenly throws his head back—

"YOWIE… WOWIE!!"

He erupts with his signature, guttural laugh. But it's different this time—sharper. More human.

The red light pulses and breaks. His mask melts in a slow, almost ceremonial blaze.

In his place stands Bray Wyatt, clad in the red sweater and gloves. His smile is bittersweet, tired eyes behind the warmth. He kneels in front of Cena, brushing dust from his shoulder like a father comforting a crying son.

Bray:

"I wasn't kidding, John. It's too late for that now."

Cena's voice cracks.

"What about Bo? What about… Uncle Howdy? He can help, right?"

Bray's smile fades. His eyes drift toward a corner of the room where shadows whisper and shift like smoke.

Bray:

"Bo talks to me. I hear him sometimes. His voice… echoes. He and the Wyatt Sicks, they keep the Funhouse breathing. But that's all it is now—breathing. Not living."

He stands, facing the decaying set.

Bray:

"It used to be alive, you know. It used to matter. But without… without him, it's just echoes now."

Cena watches in silence. Bray slowly lifts his gloved hands, showing them to John.

Bray (quietly):

"You never paid attention, John."

His voice rises, suddenly angry—his entire body shaking with emotion.

Bray:

"None of you did! LOOK AT MY HANDS!"

He stretches them toward Cena.

Bray:

"HURT. HEAL. That wasn't just some gimmick. That was the whole point! Every time he touched someone—The Fiend—something changed! People faced themselves. Some got better. Some… broke. But he never left them the same."

Cena's eyes widen. Flashbacks ripple through the room—Seth Rollins trembling in a corner, Finn Bálor convulsing, Braun screaming in confusion. All victims. All transformed.

Bray (quietly, almost to himself):

"Every time… he left a piece of himself behind."

Bray turns away, muttering, pacing. Then—he stops.

Something flickers in his expression. A pause. A thought.

He spins slowly back toward Cena, eyes glowing with new, unstable energy.

Bray:

"Maybe… just maybe… John, I may have an idea."

Cut to black.