The Monster She Deserves
The air in the arena always tasted the same. It was a cocktail of stale beer, ozone, recycled air conditioning, and fear. Mostly fear.
I sat on the leather couch in my private locker room, the distinct, rhythmic tapping of Paul Heyman’s fingers against his phone screen serving as the only soundtrack to my thoughts. The Universal Championship rested on the table in front of me. It was heavy, gold, and cold. It was the physical manifestation of everything I had sacrificed, every piece of my soul I had carved away to build the island of relevancy.
"Tribal Chief," Paul’s voice broke the silence, soft and obsequious. "The production meeting ran long. They are ready for your entrance in twenty minutes."
I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the title. "Where is Jey?"
"Jey is... handling a family matter. He will be at Gorilla."
I nodded slowly. Handling a family matter. That phrase used to mean something different. It used to mean barbecues and birthdays. Now, it meant mitigating damage. It meant silencing dissent. It meant ensuring that the hierarchy remained undisputed.
I stood up, adjusting the cuffs of my track jacket. The room felt too small suddenly. "I’m going for a walk."
Paul started to rise, panic flashing behind his glasses. "My Tribal Chief, surely it is better to rest—"
"Stay here, Wiseman."
It wasn't a request. Paul sank back into his chair, nodding fervently. He knew better than to argue when my voice dropped that specific octave.
I walked out into the concrete hallway. The backstage area of Madison Square Garden was a labyrinth, a hive of activity that usually parted like the Red Sea when I walked through it. Producers scrambled out of my path. Referees averted their eyes. Mid-card talent pressed their backs against the cinder block walls, offering silent nods of acknowledgment.
They respected me. They feared me. It was the same thing.
But my mind wasn't on the match tonight. It wasn't on Cody, or Seth, or whoever the company decided to feed to the shark this month. My mind was on a specific laugh I had heard earlier in catering, a sound that cut through the noise of the business like a bell.
YN.
YN Devitt.
The name itself was a headache. Being the younger sister of Finn Bálor—the Prince, the leader of the Judgment Day—placed her squarely in enemy territory. The Judgment Day was chaos. They were anarchy in black leather and purple light. We were order. We were royalty. Oil and water.
And yet.
I turned a corner near the loading dock, seeking the cooler air near the bay doors. It was quieter here, away from the manic energy of the locker rooms.
She was there.
She was sitting on a stack of road cases, her legs swinging idly. She wasn't dressed for TV yet. She wore a simple oversized hoodie and leggings, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that highlighted the sharp, aristocratic structure of her face—a trait she shared with her brother. But where Finn’s eyes were cold, calculating, and often demonic, YN’s were warm. They were a dangerous kind of warm. The kind that made you want to take your armor off.
She looked up as I approached, and unlike everyone else in this building, she didn't flinch. She didn't scramble. She just smiled.
"You look like you're plotting a murder, Joe," she said, her Irish accent softer than Finn's, but just as distinct.
I stopped a few feet away from her. I shouldn't be here. Paul would have a stroke if he knew I was unsupervised with her.
"I'm always plotting," I said, my voice rumbling in the empty loading bay. "It's part of the job description."
"Heavy is the head?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.
"Something like that." I moved closer, invading her space. It was a test. It was always a test with people. I wanted to see if they would break, if they would step back.
YN didn't move. She held my gaze, her chin lifting defiantly.
"You're not supposed to be back here," I told her. "This is a restricted area."
"I'm Finn Bálor's sister. I go where I want."
"You're talking to the Tribal Chief. I decide who goes where."
She laughed again, that sound vibrating in my chest. "You know, for the scariest man in the industry, or so they say, you sure do spend a lot of time lurking in hallways."
"I don't lurk. I survey."
"Semantics." She hopped off the road case, landing lightly on her feet. She was small compared to me—everyone was—but she carried herself with a kinetic energy that commanded attention. She stepped into me, placing a hand on my chest, right over the logo on my jacket.
The contact was electric. It was forbidden. If Finn saw this, there would be a war. If the cameras caught this, the internet would melt. But right here, in the shadow of the loading dock, it was just us.
"You look tired," she murmured, her thumb brushing the fabric. "Real tired."
"I'm fine," I lied. I was exhausted. My bones ached with the weight of carrying this company for over a thousand days. The paranoia of betrayal was a constant hum in the back of my skull.
"You don't have to be the Chief right now," she whispered. "Just for a minute."
I looked down at her. It was a dangerous proposition. To stop being the Tribal Chief was to show weakness. Weakness was blood in the water. But with YN, the water always felt calm.
"Your brother is looking for you," I said, deflecting. "The Judgment Day has a segment in an hour."
"Finn worries too much," she dismissed, but her hand lingered on my chest. "He thinks everyone in this building is out to get me."
"He's not wrong," I said darker than I intended. "This place... it eats people, YN. It chews them up and spits them out. You're too..."
"Too what?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Too soft? Too nice?"
"Too bright," I admitted. "You haven't let the darkness in yet. Not like him. Not like me."
She sighed, dropping her hand, and the loss of contact made me physically colder. "Maybe I like the darkness, Roman. Maybe that's why I'm standing here talking to the biggest wolf in the forest instead of knitting in the women's locker room."
I reached out, my hand cupping her cheek. Her skin was soft. "You shouldn't be standing here. You should be far away from this."
"I don't want to be far away." She leaned into my touch. "I want to be where you are."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and terrified. It was a complication I didn't need. A weakness I couldn't afford. And yet, looking at her, I knew I would burn the entire Bloodline to the ground before I let anyone hurt her.
"Roman!"
The voice was sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade. I didn't pull away immediately. I turned my head slowly, keeping my hand on YN’s cheek for a second longer than necessary—a claim—before dropping it and turning to face the intruder.
Finn Bálor stood at the end of the loading bay corridor.
He wasn't in his gear yet, but the paint was already around his eyes, the demon lurking just beneath the surface. He looked from me to YN, his expression unreadable, which was worse than anger. Damian Priest stood behind him, looming like a gargoyle, but Finn waved him back.
"Leave us," Finn commanded.
Priest hesitated, glancing at me, then nodded and retreated around the corner.
Finn walked toward us. His steps were silent, predatory. He stopped five feet away, his eyes locked on mine. The history between us was long and violent. I had beaten him. I had broken him. I had taken everything from him to secure my spot at the head of the table.
"YN," Finn said, his voice low. "Go to the bus."
"Ferg, don't start," she snapped, stepping between us. "We were just talking."
"I said, go to the bus." He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on me. "Now."
YN looked at me, looking for a sign. I gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. This was between me and him. She hesitated, frustration evident in the set of her jaw, but she respected the tone. She squeezed my arm briefly—a gesture Finn definitely saw—and walked past her brother, disappearing down the hall.
Silence stretched between us. The hum of the arena ventilation seemed to get louder.
"You have a lot of nerve," Finn said finally.
"I do what I want," I replied, crossing my arms. "I'm the Tribal Chief. I don't ask for permission to speak to anyone."
"She's not just anyone. She's my blood."
"I know who she is."
Finn laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Do you? Do you know what happens to people who get close to you, Roman? Look at your cousins. Look at your 'Wiseman.' You drain them. You use them as shields. You demand loyalty and you give back nothing but trauma."
I stepped forward, towering over him. "I give them greatness. I give them relevance. Without me, they are nothing. Without me, they are mid-card acts struggling for TV time."
"And YN?" Finn looked up, unflinching. "Does she need relevance? Or does she need safety?"
"I can keep her safer than you can," I growled. The truth of it flared in my chest. "You run with a pack of hyenas, Finn. Judgment Day is a circus. You can't protect her from the politics. You can't protect her from management. I am management."
"You're a target," Finn countered. "Every gun in this company is aimed at your head. And if she stands next to you, she gets hit by the stray bullets."
"I don't let bullets hit what is mine."
The words slipped out before I could check them. What is mine.
Finn’s eyes widened slightly. He heard it. He processed it. The tension in his shoulders didn't drop, but the aggression shifted into something more contemplative. He looked at the floor, then back at me. He looked tired, too. We were all so tired.
"She defends you, you know," Finn said quietly. "In the locker room. When the girls talk. When Seth runs his mouth. She tells them they don't know the real you."
"She sees clearly."
"She sees what she wants to see." Finn walked past me, toward the stack of road cases where she had been sitting. He traced a finger over the metal edge. "I've tried to keep her away from this life. I tried to keep her in Dublin. But she has the sickness, same as us. She needs the noise."
"Then let her have it."
"With you?" Finn turned back. "You're a monster, Roman. You've manipulated your own flesh and blood to keep that gold on your shoulder."
"I did what was necessary."
"And you'll do what is necessary to her, too. Eventually."
"Never." The word was absolute. "I would tear this world apart before I let her carry my burdens."
Finn studied me. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the politician, the manipulator, the Tribal Chief. But I wasn't giving him a promo. I was giving him the truth.
He let out a long breath, shaking his head. A strange, twisted smile touched his lips. It wasn't happy, but it was resigned.
"She hates the nice ones," Finn muttered, almost to himself. "She always has. She gets bored. She wants the fire."
He walked back toward me, stopping within striking distance. He was smaller, yes, but Finn Bálor was a man who had stared down demons. He wasn't afraid of a Chief.
"I hate you, Roman," Finn said calmly. "I hate what you represent. I hate that you're sitting on a throne that I could have built."
"But you didn't," I reminded him.
"No. I didn't." He paused. "But I can't watch her 24/7. And I can't stop the vultures in the back who see her name and want to use her to get to me. Or to get to you."
He looked down the hallway where she had disappeared.
"She thinks you're a hero," Finn said. "God knows why."
"Maybe I am."
"No. You're a villain. The biggest one we've ever had." Finn looked me dead in the eye. "But she deserves someone like you."
The air left the room.
I blinked, processing the words. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Finn said, his voice hard. "She deserves someone like you. Not because you're good. But because you're the only one arrogant enough, strong enough, and selfish enough to keep the rest of the world away from her. The nice guys? They'll fold. They'll let the business crush her. You..." He gestured to the title belt that wasn't there, but was always there in spirit. "You crush the business."
It was a twisted blessing. A darkly pragmatic handoff. He was acknowledging that in a world of sharks, only the Leviathan could ensure her survival.
"If you break her heart," Finn added, his voice dropping to a whisper that sounded like a curse, "I won't come for your title. I won't come for your spot. I will wait until you are asleep, and I will end you."
"Understood," I said. And I meant it.
Finn held my gaze for one second longer, then turned on his heel. "Get to Gorilla. You're holding up the show."
He walked away, slipping back into the shadows of the arena, back to his Judgment Day.
I stood there for a moment, absorbing the interaction. She deserves someone like you.
It wasn't a compliment. It was an assignment.
I turned and headed back toward my locker room. The walk felt different now. The burden of the title felt... shared, in a way. Not that I would let her carry it, but that the reason for carrying it had shifted. It wasn't just about the legacy of the Anoa'i family anymore. It was about maintaining the power structure required to keep her safe.
When I got back to the room, Paul was pacing.
"My Tribal Chief! Thank heavens. The producer was just here, they are queuing the music in five—"
"Relax, Paul." I walked past him and picked up the title. I slung it over my shoulder.
I checked my phone. One new message.
YN: Fergal says he didn't kill you. That's a plus.
I allowed a small smirk to touch my lips. I typed back a quick response.
Me: He knows better. Watch the monitor.
I pocketed the phone and looked at Paul. "Let's go."
We walked to Gorilla Position. The energy shifted as we got closer to the curtain. The crowd noise was a deafening roar, a physical force that vibrated against the heavy black curtains.
Solo Sikoa was there, standing with his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. Jimmy was bouncing on his toes, hyping himself up. They looked at me, waiting for the cue.
I looked at the monitor on the wall. The camera cut to the backstage area, showing the Judgment Day walking. I saw Finn. And just behind him just as he passed, looking at a monitor of her own, was YN.
She looked happy. She looked safe.
I adjusted the title on my shoulder. I puffed out my chest. I flipped the switch that turned Joe Anoa'i into the Head of the Table.
"Paul," I said, my voice commanding the space.
"Yes, my Tribal Chief?"
"Tell them to hit my music."
The opening notes of my theme hit—the deep, orchestral doom that signaled the arrival of a god. The crowd erupted, a mix of boos and cheers, mostly acknowledgments of power.
I walked through the curtain, the bright lights blinding me for a fraction of a second before my vision adjusted. I saw the thousands of faces. I saw the signs. I saw the empire I had built.
I raised my hand, the finger pointing to the sky. Pyro exploded behind me, the heat washing over my back.
Let Finn think what he wanted. Let the locker room whisper. I was Roman Reigns. I was the Tribal Chief. And now, I had something new to fight for.
She deserved a monster to keep the nightmares away.
And I was the best monster there was.
"Acknowledge me," I breathed, and I marched down the ramp to war.
