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Setting: Monday Night RAW – One Week After Payback
Focus: Fallout. Seth Rollins' betrayal has rocked WWE to its core. Roman Reigns is missing. Dean Ambrose is broken. The Authority rises.
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[Opening Segment – Triple H's Office]
The screen fades into the dim glow of Triple H's office. The camera slowly pans across polished mahogany furniture, framed championship photos, and a cold air of control.
Standing dead center is Seth Rollins.
Dressed in a sleek black suit, his golden briefcase in hand reads "The Future." Flanking him are Triple H and Stephanie McMahon, both radiating power and pride.
Triple H (looking straight into the camera):
"This is evolution. This… is survival. The weak fall. The strong rise. Seth Rollins? He didn't betray anyone. He evolved. Roman couldn't keep up. He perished."
Seth smirks, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of inner conflict? Or just calculation?
Stephanie McMahon:
"Dean Ambrose is broken. Roman Reigns has disappeared into the shadows. And The Shield…?"
(She turns to Seth with a proud, almost maternal smile.)
"The Shield is dead. Welcome to the era of The Authority… and its future."
Seth (quietly, yet with razor-sharp finality):
"I didn't destroy The Shield. I released myself from its chains."
Triple H claps a hand on Seth's shoulder.
Triple H:
"You made the right choice, Seth. You chose legacy over loyalty. That's what makes you a champion."
Seth (almost to himself):
"Loyalty doesn't pay the bills… and it sure as hell doesn't make history."
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[Backstage – Dean Ambrose Loses It]
A dim, nearly silent corridor. The camera trails through it like a ghost, entering a wrecked locker room.
The nameplate—The Shield—still hangs above the door, cracked down the middle.
Inside, Dean Ambrose paces like a storm about to break. The air is thick with tension. The mirror is shattered. Steel chairs overturned. A trail of destruction follows wherever he moves.
Blood drips from his knuckles.
Dean (to himself, hoarse):
"I should've seen it. I should've seen it in his eyes…"
He slams his hand against the metal locker again with a resounding clang.
Dean (louder now):
"We bled together! We fought together! And he threw it away… for them?!"
He collapses onto the bench, leaning forward, gripping his hair.
Dean (voice cracking):
"I'd take bullets for that guy… and he stabbed me in the back instead."
The door creaks open. A backstage producer peeks in.
Producer (nervously):
"Uh… Dean… we need you—"
Dean shoots a glare so sharp it silences him.
Dean (growling):
"Tell Seth I'm coming. I don't know when… I don't know how… but I am coming. And when I do—he'll beg me to stop before I'm done."
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[In-Ring Segment – Seth's Coronation]
The arena goes dark except for the crimson glow of a spotlight illuminating a golden carpet and towering black-and-gold podium in the ring.
Seth Rollins walks down the ramp, flanked by Triple H, Batista, and Randy Orton. Evolution reborn.
The crowd hurls venom in the form of chants and boos.
Crowd:
"YOU SOLD OUT! YOU SOLD OUT! YOU SOLD OUT!"
Seth soaks it in, climbing the podium slowly, every step exuding arrogance.
Seth (calm, microphone in hand):
"I didn't sell out. I bought in—to my future. You people don't understand. You cheer for chaos. But chaos doesn't win wars."
He pauses, scanning the audience.
Seth (coldly):
"Roman Reigns was dead weight. Dean Ambrose? A lunatic destined to blow everything up, including himself. I didn't betray The Shield. I saved myself from it."
Batista (laughing):
"About time you figured it out, kid. Brotherhood's just a word. This? This is power."
Randy Orton (smirking):
"Loyalty is for losers. You want to be great, Seth? Forget friendship. Embrace legacy."
Seth (firmly):
"I looked Roman in the eyes when I drove that chair into his back. And you know what I saw? Surprise. Not because I hit him—but because deep down, he knew I was right."
More furious chants echo from the crowd. A fan throws a Shield shirt into the ring.
Seth (kicking it aside):
"You wanted a war? You got one. But this time, I'm not standing beside anyone. I'm standing above them."
Suddenly—
The lights flicker.
The podium shakes slightly. The camera feed distorts.
A high-pitched sound fills the arena—like a distant scream caught in static.
Then—darkness.
Gasps. Screams. Confusion.
In the black, only one sound remains: the sharp, ragged breathing of someone… or something watching.
Fade out.
To be continued ---