I'm ending this tonight.

It was a promise he made to the world. To Bray Wyatt, scum of the earth, that sinister hick, the sadistic bastard who'd been terrorizing him for months now. A promise he made to Dean Ambrose, his best friend. His brother. All he had left in this company.

Dean hadn't meant to sound so condescending earlier when evoking biting memories of all Bray Wyatt had done to Roman since Money in the Bank: costing him the ladder match, stealing away his chances at becoming the World Heavyweight champion…bringing Roman's own daughter into their feud (merely as an illusion, though, not physically—lucky for Bray, Roman figured, as there would be one dead Wyatt if he'd gone near Joelle.) What more could Bray Wyatt possibly want of him? What more did he need? What was he getting out of this now, attention? Fame? He wasn't going for a championship of his own. Bray Wyatt couldn't consider himself a superstar, hardly.

Bray had nothing here. Nothing but those two yapping dogs always behind him, those training wheels, Luke Harper and Braun Strowman. Bray was almost never found without his pets. They were an accessory to his menacing ensemble. Two more plastic pieces in his set. A package deal: a band of brooding rustics, always playing dirty.

But not tonight.

Roman had challenged Bray Wyatt one-on-one on tonight's episode of Raw. No Luke Harper in his stained muscle shirt, no bumpkin beefcake Braun Strowman…it did cost something on Roman's end, though: the presence of Dean Ambrose. His friend had promised a prompt appearance and subsequent strike on the Wyatt family members should they interfere in the match. Roman was almost counting on it. He knew how they functioned.

Dean was sweet, looking out for him like that. Roman knew he'd do the same thing for Ambrose, any day of the week.

But it was ending tonight. No matter what.

Roman would see to it.

His was the first entrance into the match. His theme music blared, and Roman tramped towards the ring, valiance in his stride, off from the side in typical Reigns fashion. Fans tapped him on the arm, upheld their phones for photos, stretched their hands out for hopeful high-fives—he only wished he could meet every single one. But he was angry, far too angry to concentrate on the beloved WWE devotees, his own admirers, right now. His mind was murky, murkier than the turbid swamps the Wyatt family originated from as mere tadpoles, evolving into inhuman creatures who aimed to destroy.

He couldn't focus on anything except ending Bray Wyatt. For good. Forever.

Roman pulled himself over the top rope, pacing towards the center of the ring and back to the side again. He was openly fidgety, very apparently anxious. It was not anxiety derived from fear, oh no—thrill. The very thought of ending this ridiculous feud with Bray Wyatt and his miserable crew possessed Roman with hostile vigor. At last, he thought, anticipating Bray's prolonged entrance. Finally.

The lights dimmed. Fans raised the screens of their phones as "fireflies" for Bray Wyatt's arrival. There he was, the stout figure, head veiled in some sort of horned hood, clenching his precious lantern. Roman forced his feet in place, envisioning cement to hold him there, as Bray approached him on the walkway. He'd come alone, as promised. Bray Wyatt keeping his word? Interesting.

Roman was still on guard, not exactly hopeful. He'd see Harper and Strowman. He felt it in his bones. Experience paid off.

Bray ascended the metal staircase and slithered like a serpent between the ropes. He puffed a sharp breath onto his lantern, and the little flame dispersed, succeeded by the bright lights of the arena.

Roman felt himself scowling. He hated Bray Wyatt more than anything in the world. Just the sight of him twisted Roman's stomach into acidic knots. Especially that little smirk of him, the arrogant jackass…why was he looking so smug? What was the reason behind that simper?

It didn't matter. Roman didn't give a spec of a damn about this creature.

It was time to end him.

The bell tolled.

Roman made the first move. He launched his whole figure at Bray Wyatt, intending for a tackle. Bray Wyatt didn't exactly meet the mat as Roman planned. Roman instead drove him against the ropes, pitching blow after blow with a shaking fist into Bray's screwy face. Bray slumped to his knees, and Roman seized a handful of his greasy hair and yanked his neck back, exposing his face and neck in full.

He was laughing.

This sick bastard, Roman thought. Does he get off on this or what?

If he did, Roman was about to pleasure him in extremes. Still clutching Bray's mane, Roman pitched his clenched fist twice more into his nose, intending to shatter it worse than Rollins had done to Cena a little while ago. Bray would be lucky if he got out of here with merely a broken nose.

At last Bray Wyatt fought back. It started with a jab to Roman's ribcage, and as Roman slumped over in a natural response to the hit, Bray lifted his knee and struck Roman in the forehead. Roman spun around, blinking away stars, his feet trying to situate themselves on the mat. He felt a mighty kick in his back, and Roman toppled forward, his hands breaking the fall as he found himself on all fours like a dog.

There it was, that chortle again, loud and squeaky as though he'd just heard the world's funniest joke. It aggravated Roman to no end. Before Bray could hit him again, Roman rolled out of the way, using his legs to knock into Bray's like a bowling ball against pins. Bray lost his balance, and his physique hit the mat with a clearly audible thud. Roman scrambled for the pin. He hooked Bray's leg with a brawny arm and waited for the three-count.

The lights went off. The arena was pitch-black.

Roman heard the chilling, all-too-familiar screeches and scratches of Bray's promo cut.

His confusion only flourished as the TitanTron lit to life, and Roman once more heard that maddening cackle. It was Bray's, however, it came from the virtual vision of him on the mega screen, not the very real, physical Wyatt whom was still lying on the mat.

How is this possible?

"Roman, Roman, Roman," Bray—on the TitanTron—said in his hushed tone. Smoke rose over his face in the dark area where he'd obviously prerecorded this video. "I tried to warn you. I urged you not to cross paths with me. Not to pick a fight with a dragon. What are you against me, Reigns? Nothing but a poor little knight, shaking like a leaf in his armor. Yet it is your own arrogance that betrays you; your own overconfidence that serves as your greatest downfall. You step up to me, you bark in my face, you insult my brothers because you believe you've got it all. Boy, you think you're something else, don't you? You think you're Superman. You think you can play the hero and save the day! You think by challenging me, you can prove something to all the people who adore you, and everyone whom you adore. Not that there's many people like that in the world, right? Yet you're foolish enough to allow yourself to care about certain people far too much. One person, in particular. Someone you care about very deeply."

The camera zoomed out of the close-up on Bray Wyatt's sweating, veiny facial figure, panning down. Dean Ambrose was revealed, lying at Bray's feet, bound by his wrists and ankles with thick rope. A silver piece of tape had been slapped over his mouth. His face was bruised beneath his eyes as though he'd been beaten just before this broadcast. His body was jerking as though the very act of breathing, living, was strenuous.

Roman's chest tightened. His breath snagged in his throat. Oh, no.

"What did I promise, Roman?" Bray's voice came back. He squatted down beside Dean. "I promised to take away everything you loved, if you let this war carry on. You made it very easy for me by reserving great love for one individual: precious little Dean here." Bray patted Dean's cheek with the back of his meaty hand. "And I warned you, but you didn't listen. Superman just had to be the hero, one more time, every time. So we'll have it your way, Roman. You can play the part of the hero again. And Ambrose here, he can play the role of Lois Lane." Bray Wyatt stroked his fingers through Dean's unkempt hair, and Dean snarled as he attempted to pull away—and failed. "The question is, can you save him?"

Bray laughed one more time. Dean writhed in his bondage.

The video cut out, the screen going off once more.

It was quiet as a graveyard in the arena and just as dark. One couldn't see a hand in front of his face. Roman's insides were ablaze with hatred. No. No, no, no.

Even in the darkness, Roman was able to find Bray Wyatt still sprawled onto the mat, getting a kick out of his own trick. Roman clutched his shirt and hoisted him off the mat, his face right in Bray's. "Where is he?" he growled, teeth clenched, jaw tightened.

Bray only laughed.

"WHERE IS HE!?" Roman screamed, casting bits of saliva onto an unconcerned Bray Wyatt.

"You said you wanted it to be just us, Roman," Bray spoke softly. "Remember what he said earlier? You'll handle me…and he'll handle my family. Or maybe it was the other way around…"

Fuck. No. This isn't happening. NO!

Roman staggered to his feet, his body still trying to catch up to the speed of his mind. The few hits he'd taken from Bray were trying to affect him. His heart battered dynamically against his ribcage. Battling the pain, he wandered in the dark ring, arms stretched before him, seeking out the ropes so he could gain an idea of where he was.

A single bright light flared up far across the arena, beneath the TitanTron, above the walkway where the other wrestlers made their entrances. Roman's eyes fixed on three figures standing beneath the volley of the luminosity like angels.

Or quite the opposite. Demons, more like it.

The first two were Strowman and Harper, standing side-by-side. Strowman had Dean in a headlock, the morbid way he forced every opponent he ever faced to pass out…Dean's legs were flailing, though, so the job wasn't quite done…not yet, anyway, and Roman had to get over there before Dean foundered into immobilization…

Roman vaulted over the ropes and hit the hard floor of the arena, landing on his ankle at an awkward angle. A shot of pain spread up his leg, but he ignored it. From this distance he could still see Luke Harper grinning like the devil himself, arms expanding as though to say, "Come and get us."

The bright light vanished. Roman was frustrated, groaning in pain, left in the dark.

It wasn't long before the main lights resurfaced, restoring vision to the unnerved audience and the infuriated Roman Reigns. Strowman and Harper were gone. As was Dean.

Roman glanced back towards the ring. Bray was holding onto the middle rope, still confined to the mat, watching Roman curiously, observing his next action.

The ref, uncertain what to do otherwise, began to count.

Roman shook his head. He was done with this match. He had to save Dean.

He darted down the walkway and cut through the door to gain entrance backstage. How far could they have gotten in a matter of seconds? Unless his perspective was completely warped by his own stress and it had been much longer.

He hoped that wasn't the case. Dean was strong, sure, but stood no chance against both of them. Especially after an apparent assault by Bray Wyatt prior to this…either Bray, or all three of them.

"DEAN!" Roman screamed. He bolted down one hallway, pushing through any door that would open. These rooms, mostly officers, were vacant. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?" his voice carried through the seemingly empty area. Where had the entire roster gone? "COME OUT AND FIGHT ME, YOU FUCKING COWARDS!" He quit the yelling as his voice began quivering. Don't break down just yet, he told himself as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Oh my God, Dean, where are you? Please be okay…please…

Roman rounded a corner. The locker room was down this wing. Worth a shot, he thought, weak in the mind but well-compensated in strength in the body. He shoved through the heavy door with a grunt.

No Strowman. No Harper. No Dean. Nobody except Randy Orton, a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist, beads of water still clinging to his bare cut chest.

"Knock much?" Orton asked, chuckling.

"Randy, have you seen the Wyatts?"

Randy arched an eyebrow. "Bray? Thought you were wrestling him."

"I was. Long story," Roman huffed, not wanting to bother with details. "Harper and Strowman have Dean. They took him…somewhere. I don't know where."

Randy's lips twitched. He might have been on Dean's case earlier with Ambrose's comments about Jericho and Orton serving as an outsider, but he wasn't about to hold the past against anyone under these circumstances. "Seriously."

"Seriously."

"Shit, man. No, I haven't seen them, but let me pull some pants on and we'll track them down…"

Roman turned around and waited for Orton to dress himself. The Apex Predator was a decent ally.

The two shoved out of the locker room, tagging one another down the hall.

"Where'd you see 'em last?" Randy asked.

"Out in the arena," Roman asked, waving his arm in the general direction of the ring and the crowd. "They showed up, Strowman had him in that chokehold, then they vanished."

"Don't worry, Roman, we'll find him."

"I should have looked out for him better tonight. I should have known they'd pull some kind of shit like this…" Roman shoved his hair from his face. He bit down on his trembling lip. "This is my fault…"

"Hey, easy," Randy said. "Relax, Roman. This is nobody's fault but those goddamn Wyatt brothers. We'll make them pay, you hear? We'll get Dean back, and we'll get those fuckers back."

They rounded another corner. Roman's breath hooked in his throat once more.

At the end of a long narrow corridor was the body of Dean Ambrose, crumpled into the fetal position. Unmoving, from what Roman could detect at this extent.

Before Randy could warn him of a potential trap—not that it would have stopped him anyway—Roman rushed down the hall, nearly tripping over his feet, collapsing on his knees beside the fallen Ambrose.

"Dean?" Roman asked, voice rising in a panic. He immersed his muscular arms underneath Dean and raised the upper half of his body into his lap. "Dean, hey, it's me, I'm here…" He gently pressed the back of his fingers against Dean's cheek. Still warm. A good sign. He lifted Dean a bit higher, holding his ear against Dean's chest. He sensed a heartbeat, or was that perhaps his own going wild, frying beneath his own muscles?

"Dean?" he tried again, growing as weary as he was desperate.

Finally Dean moved, his head shifting to the side, neck craning. His face suddenly rumpled as though just now becoming aware of his situation, the pain he was in. A single grunt escaped his lungs, sneaked past his lips. "Roman."

"Hey, Dean. I'm here. You're okay…you're fine…" It was hard to tell who he was trying to reassure: Dean, or himself. He held Dean securely, safely. Long as I'm here, nothing can happen to him…if only I'd been here, watching out for him, this wouldn't have happened…

Dean tried to sit up. Realizing it was too great of an exertion to do so, he relaxed against in place. "What happened?"

"Wyatts. Used you to get me to throw my match. Scared the hell out of me."

His tongue went over a gash on his bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Roman…"

"Don't be sorry, Dean, are you kidding? I'm sorry."

"Hey, both of you, knock it off with the apologies," Randy said, arms folded over his chest. "It's neither of your faults, it's Bray Wyatt's. So let's get Dean to his feet, and we'll worry about him in a bit. Come on…"

Randy offered his steady arms to help lift Dean to his feet. Roman supported him on one side, and Randy draped one of Dean's arms over his shoulder to act as a crutch. Together Orton and Reigns stood Dean up as much as he could manage and straightened their postures.

Roman looked up and saw Bray Wyatt at the end of the corridor. Standing beside him were the faithful pets, Luke Harper and Braun Strowman, Braun in that black mask of him, Luke's glare shooting past his bushy beard. Roman's nostrils flared, and he growled deep in his throat.

"My theory has been confirmed," Bray Wyatt spoke. "Humanity is wretched. Roman Reigns thinks he's almighty and all powerful, but he's no better than anyone else, because he still succumbs to weaknesses like his devotion to his dear, dear Dean Ambrose. I thought it might be that all along, Roman, but tonight you've shown your true colors. I don't care what your excuses are. You aren't fooling anybody. On some level, to some degree, you are afraid of me. And you should be. I know what makes you tick."

Something in Roman snapped. He couldn't take it anymore. Bray Wyatt was scheduled to die, right then and there. He left Dean under the complete protection of Randy and dashed down the hallway like a streak of lightning, coming in just as powerful and heated.

"ROMAN, NO!" Randy hollered. Roman couldn't even hear him. With a loaded fist he readied to split Bray's cranium wide open with perhaps the most violent Superman punch in existence. He was interrupted, of course, not thinking clearly in the consequence his mind should have registered. Braun Strowman held out a hand and caught Roman by the throat. Roman's hands lifted to his neck, atop Braun's paws, clawing at them, desperate to breathe. Instead of knocking him out completely, Braun pinned him to the wall with that one hand, Roman's head smacking against the brick enclosure, and swung several punches into Roman's jaw. He released Roman just after the final impact, letting Reigns buckle to the floor.

"Leave him," Bray said, holding Braun's arm. "He knows the truth now, as I do. He knows it's far from over between us. The war carries on."

Roman spit a clump of blood onto the floor beside him. His head was roasting with pain. He watched with blurred vision as Bray Wyatt sauntered away, followed by his family members.

"Jesus, Roman, what the hell were you thinking?" Randy asked. He'd made his way over to Roman, towing Dean beside him. "He could have killed you."

"He wouldn't have," Roman blurted. "Wants me alive…wants me to suffer…"

"Well, don't give him an advantage next time, alright?"

Roman scoffed. "Thank God you didn't go charging into it like I did."

"Cooler heads prevail."

Dean seemed to be able to stand a bit more stable now. Roman sat himself up, and Randy offered an arm to draw him to his feet. "Are you alright, Dean?" Roman asked.

Dean cocked a pathetic grin. "Takes a lot more to keep me down for too long, Roman. You know this."

"We'll get 'em next time. Together."

"Yeah. No more one-on-ones. From now on, it's you and me, baby." Dean raised a fist, and Roman weakly tapped it with his own.

Randy cleared his throat.

"Sure, Orton, you too." Dean offered a fist-bump to Randy next. "Sorry about what I said earlier. Clearly, you're no outsider. You're one of the few guys we can trust around here."

"Nice of you to say, Dean, at long last. Don't worry. Next time, they won't be so sneaky. We'll be one step ahead."

Next time… The words rattled in Roman's aching head like a pebble in a tin can. Against his hopes yet in favor of the odds. Bray Wyatt was right. The end of a battle didn't signify the closure of the war. If anything else, it would carry on now with much more brutality.

He hadn't managed to end it with Bray Wyatt tonight.

But he would, someday.

And at least he could take comfort in the fact that he'd never be alone.

Not once, not ever.