The TV flickered—a colorless haze, glitching like a broken memory. The only light in the room. Cena stared at it, arms crossed, tension pulsing through him.
He turned toward The Fiend, who stood with his back to him, silent.
"When… when will we know if it worked?" John asked, voice hoarse.
The Fiend didn't answer.
"Hey!" Cena snapped.
Suddenly, with a sickening, unnatural movement, The Fiend snapped backward, collapsing onto his hands in his infamous crab walk. His head twisted, face upside down, those burning eyes locked onto Cena as he crawled toward him like a nightmare come alive. The TV crackled louder.
John stumbled back a step. His pulse pounding.
The Fiend flipped upright with a violent jerk, now nose to nose with him. His mask inches from John's face. The eyes behind it glowed hotter the closer he got—like they were burning through him.
John swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just… I just need to know."
A beat of silence.
Then… the mask began to fade.
The Fiend's twisted face melted away, revealing Bray Wyatt. His cheerful grin was disarming. Disarming and wrong.
"You'll know when I know, John," Bray said sweetly. "And until something happens, we can't know."
Then the smile dropped. Instantly. As if it had never been there at all.
His eyes narrowed.
His voice dropped into something cold and final.
"So be patient, John."
The lights in the Funhouse flickered violently—off for a second too long. The room buzzed like it was alive.
Then the TV sputtered, its screen illuminating again. The lantern at Bray's feet pulsed red-hot.
A familiar sound broke through the static.
John Cena's theme music.
John leaned forward instinctively. But it wasn't him.
On the screen, standing center-ring the night after WrestleMania 41, was Evil Cena—the new undisputed champion.
His title glistened with a warped logo, and his gear had changed again—darker, harsher. Around the arena, Cena's twisted brand had infected the entire production. His name was etched in red on every screen.
The crowd booed, but Evil Cena soaked it in with a sick smile.
He handed the ring announcer a folded piece of paper and forced him to read it aloud.
"In the ring… the last real champion of the WWE… the one and only John Cena."
The crowd jeered louder. But Cena wasn't fazed. He snatched the mic and began pacing the ring.
"You people… you make me sick," he growled.
He pointed directly at the hard camera.
"I want every single one of you to apologize for doubting me."
The crowd broke out in defiance at first… but it shifted.
"WE ARE SORRY!" they chanted, almost fearfully.
But Evil Cena twisted their words instantly.
"Ohhh… did you hear that, huh? They just said: 'WE AREN'T SORRY.'" He turned to the camera again, smirking. "Proof. They never meant it."
He circled the ring, shaking his head.
"You all mean nothing to me. And in 27 dates—not matches, dates—I'll vanish. Me and this title will disappear. And you'll be left with nothing."
He held the title high.
"I AM THE LAST REAL CHAMPION OF THE WWE."
⸻
In the Funhouse, Cena watched in horror. His face had gone pale.
Bray laughed behind him, like a schoolboy watching someone fall down a flight of stairs.
"He's really going to ruin you, isn't he John?"
Cena didn't speak. He just stared.
Then he said quietly, "We can't stop him, can we? It didn't work. I'm going to be trapped here forever… and he's going to destroy the WWE."
John looked away from the screen, his soul sinking into silence.
Until the TV changed.
The crowd on-screen suddenly erupted.
There was a thud, a loud crack—Evil Cena's body dropped to the mat like dead weight.
He rolled onto his back in pain.
Standing over him… was Randy Orton.
The crowd was in a frenzy.
Back in the Funhouse, Cena blinked—then smiled. For the first time in forever.
Beside him, Bray watched with wide eyes and a wicked grin.
"It worked," he whispered with a giggle.
Cena's smile grew…
But something about the way Bray smiled. Something about the glow of the lantern.
Something about the shift in the air—
John didn't feel safe.
