Chapter 1: The Last Time Is Now

[WrestleWizard]

​

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 2:45 AM ET
LOCATION: The Ritz-Carlton, Toronto - Penthouse Suite
AUTHOR: Cody Rhodes

They say the heaviest thing in the world isn't a dumbbell, or a stone, or even the weight of a nation on your back. It's a crown. For the last year, I have carried this ten pounds of gold and leather everywhere I go. I have smiled. I have signed the autographs. I have been the "quarterback" that this company needed. I kissed the babies and I shook the hands, and I ignored the fact that slowly, piece by piece, the sharks were circling.
Tonight, I stopped swimming. Tonight, I bought the ocean.

I’m sitting here in the dark of this hotel suite. The city of Toronto is asleep, or maybe it’s just lying in stunned silence after what I did. My hands are still trembling slightly—not from adrenaline, not from fear, but from the residual vibration of delivering three Cross Rhodes to the man who once defined this industry.

I need to write this down. I need to justify it to the paper before I can justify it to the face in the mirror tomorrow morning.

7:45 PM - THE INTERVIEW

It started with the headache. The fifteen staples in my forehead from the Royal Rumble are itching. Byron Saxton was asking me standard questions—softballs about "legacy" and "heart." I gave him the answers he wanted. The answers the old Cody would give. "I'm fighting for the fans," "I'm a fighting champion." It tasted like ash in my mouth.

Then the air changed.

When The Rock walked into the frame, the temperature dropped ten degrees. I’ve known Dwayne for years. I’ve wrestled him. But this wasn't Dwayne. This wasn't the "People's Champion." This was the Final Boss. He didn't look at me with malice; he looked at me with appraisal. Like I was a distressed asset he was considering acquiring.

"Walk with me," he said.

I hesitated. The camera caught that hesitation. But in my head, the calculus had already begun. Lesnar is back. Rollins is unstable. Owens wants to kill me. The Bloodline is splintered but dangerous. How long can I survive on "heart"? How long until I'm just another tragedy in a history book?
I followed him.

8:00 PM - THE MERGER

We didn't go to a locker room. We went to an executive office deep in the bowels of the Rogers Centre. Leather chairs, mahogany table, a bottle of Teremana that probably costs more than my first year's downside guarantee. Paul Heyman was there, standing in the shadows, clutching his phone like a lifeline.

Rock didn't scream. He didn't threaten. He poured two glasses.

"You're tired, Cody," he said. It wasn't a question. "I can see it in your eyes. You finished the story. Congratulations. But now you're realizing the sequel is a horror movie."

He laid it out for me. Simple. Brutal. Corporate.

He told me Roman Reigns chose sentiment over sustainability. Roman wanted to be loved by his family more than he wanted to rule the industry. And because of that, Roman is weak. Roman is a liability.

"The Board," Rock said, leaning forward, "needs stability. We need a face that won't break. We need an Undisputed Champion who understands that this isn't a sport, Cody. It's a business. You can keep fighting the current, drowning in your own morals while the wolves eat you alive... or you can build a dam. You can control the water."

He offered me the one thing I haven't had since I returned to WWE: Security.

"Align with me," he said. "And you stay champion forever. We protect the asset. We protect the legacy. We erase Roman, and we build a new Board of Directors. You, me, the Wiseman. Unstoppable."

I thought about my father. The "American Dream." The common man. He fought the power his whole life. And he died without the big one. He died beloved, but he died without the power to change his destiny.

I don't want to be a Dream anymore. I want to be the Reality.

I took the glass. I drank. I sold my soul, and I was surprised by how smooth it went down.

9:30 PM - THE PREPARATION

While the Chamber matches were happening—while bodies were being broken on steel—I was in a private dressing room. No Nightmare logo. No red, white, and blue. Just black.

Putting on the tactical gear felt strange. It was utilitarian. Cold. When I pulled that ballistic mask over my face, the "Cody Rhodes" who kisses babies disappeared. I became an instrument of the Board.

I watched the monitor. I watched Roman run the gauntlet.

I have to give him credit. He fought like a demon. He took everything Solo, Jacob, Strowman, and Moxley threw at him. He was bleeding, broken, gasping for air. The crowd was chanting his name. "Yeet." "Tribal Chief."

It made me sick.

Where were those chants when I was bleeding in Indianapolis? Where was that love when I was defending this title in every city, every night, while Roman sat at home? They turned on me because I was too available. They loved him because he was rare.

Rock was right. The people are fickle. The Board is forever.

11:15 PM - THE EXECUTION

I was under the ring for twenty minutes. The smell of dust, steel, and sweat. I could hear the violence above me. I heard the roar when Roman speared Moxley through the barbed wire. I heard the silence when Rock took the mic.

"I found the one man who hates you as much as I do."

That was my cue.

I slid out. The crowd didn't see me. Roman was on his knees, a broken king in a ruined kingdom.

The low blow wasn't honorable. It wasn't "dashing." It was necessary. It was efficient.

When I took off the mask... that sound. I will never forget that sound. 50,000 people didn't boo. They gasped. It was the sound of air leaving the room. It was the sound of childhoods dying.

I looked at Roman. He looked up at me, one eye swollen shut, blood matting his beard. He didn't look angry. He looked... confused.

"Why?" he mouthed.

I didn't answer him. I didn't owe him an answer. I grabbed him. Cross Rhodes.

I felt the vertebrae shift.

Rock was laughing on the stage. A deep, rich laugh. I picked Roman up again. Cross Rhodes.

This is for the years you held the title hostage. This is for the spotlight you hogged.

I picked him up a third time. Cross Rhodes.

This is for making me choose between being a hero and being a champion.

When the ref counted three, I didn't feel remorse. I felt light. The burden was gone. I stood up, and I saw Paul Heyman nodding at me. I saw The Rock clapping. I looked at the crowd, and I saw hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred.

Good. Let them hate. Hate buys tickets. Hate drives engagement. Hate is sustainable.

1:00 AM - THE DEPARTURE

Walking backstage was a gauntlet of its own.

Jey Uso was standing near the curtain. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me like I was a stranger. Seth Rollins was being checked by medics on a gurney. He laughed. He actually laughed. "Welcome to the dark side, Rhodes," he wheezed.

I got into the black SUV with Rock and Paul. We didn't speak for the first ten minutes.

Rock finally broke the silence. "Business just went up, gentlemen."

Paul handed me a water. "My Tribal Chief," he said to Rock. Then he looked at me. "Mr. Rhodes... the Undisputed Future."

It’s a new title. A new designation.

2:45 AM - THE MIRROR

So here I am. The suit is hung up. The title is sitting on the desk, gleaming under the hotel lamp.

I’m looking at my reflection. The scar on my pec is still there. The staples in my head are still there. But the eyes are different.

I know what they will call me tomorrow. Traitor. Sellout. Corporate Cody.

Let them.

My father spent his life trying to reach the top of the mountain, relying on the love of the people to carry him. I realized tonight that the love of the people is a variable I can't control.

But The Rock? The Board? The Machine? That is a constant.

I kept the title. I secured my future. I ensured that the Rhodes name will be at the head of the table for the next decade, not just the next month.
I didn't sell out, Dad. I bought in.

Time to sleep. I have a photoshoot for the new "Board of Directors" merch at 8:00 AM.

Business is booming.

- C.R.​

​

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED: ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2025 AUTOPSY​

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 4:15 AM ET
LOCATION: The Hotel Bar, Toronto (Corner Booth, 3rd Coffee)
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard
I have been doing this for twenty-two years. I remember where I was when the glass shattered for the last time at WrestleMania 19. I remember the silence when the Streak ended. I remember the collective gasp when Seth Rollins swung the chair into Roman’s back in 2014.

But tonight? Tonight sits differently in my stomach.

Usually, after a show of this magnitude, the hotel bar is buzzing. Fans are chanting, debating star ratings, arguing about botches. Tonight, the lobby of the Ritz is quiet. It’s a funeral parlor quiet. It’s the silence of 50,000 people trying to process a betrayal they never saw coming, orchestrated by a man they trusted implicitly.

I’m on my third cup of black coffee, trying to type this out before the adrenaline crash hits, and I keep deleting sentences. How do you quantify the death of a hero? How do you explain that the "American Nightmare" didn't just turn heel—he sold out?

Let’s back up. Because before the sky fell, we watched some damn good wrestling.

THE WOMEN: IRON AND STEEL​

If tonight is remembered for the ending, it should be respected for the beginning. Bianca Belair and Stephanie Vaquer didn't just wrestle a match; they fought a war of attrition. We talk a lot about "storytelling" in this business, but seeing the EST go 38 minutes—surviving the insanity of Liv Morgan (who was terrifyingly unhinged tonight), the arrogance of Tessa Blanchard, and the desperate dynastic clawing of Charlotte Flair—was a masterclass.

The "Tower of Doom" spot will be on highlight reels for a decade, but the moment that stuck with me was the finish. Bianca didn’t win with a flash pin. She didn't win with a fluke. She hit the K.O.D., realized it wasn't enough to keep Vaquer down, and hit it again. That’s the kind of psychology we miss sometimes. And Rhea Ripley? Watching from that skybox like a Bond villain? Perfect. That stare-down was money.

THE MEN: THE PASSING OF THE TORCH (FORCEFULLY)​

Then came the meat grinder. The Men's Chamber was chaotic, violent, and necessary.

We need to talk about Bron Breakker. Tonight was his graduation ceremony. I’ve been critical of his push in the past, feeling it was too much, too soon. I was wrong. Watching him stare down Brock Lesnar—not with fear, but with hunger—was chilling. And then he did it. He pinned the Beast. Clean. In the middle. That wasn't just a pinfall; that was a transfer of power. Lesnar destroying him afterward was predictable, but it doesn't erase the three count. Breakker is a made man.

And Randy Orton. The Viper. Twenty-plus years in, and he moves with a smoothness that defies biology. Him winning was the right call. The history with Cody (which now takes on a horrifying new context) is too rich to ignore. But the subplot of CM Punk returning to take out Rollins? That’s the X-factor. Punk vs. Rollins is going to be a blood feud, but right now, it feels like a side dish to the main course.

THE GAUNTLET: THE PASSION OF THE ROMAN​

Then... the main event.

I’ve spent years criticizing Roman Reigns. during the "Big Dog" era, I hated the forced push. During the "Bloodline" era, I grew tired of the interference. But tonight? Tonight, Roman Reigns was the greatest babyface on the planet.

The Rock designed this to be an execution, but Roman turned it into a martyrdom.

• Solo Sikoa: Roman fighting his own blood, the man who usurped his seat at the table. You could feel the heartbreak in every strike.
• Jacob Fatu: A monster. Roman surviving him was a miracle of selling.
• Braun Strowman: A callback to their classic rivalry. Choking him out was poetic.
• Jon Moxley: This is where it got real. When Moxley came out with the barbed wire, the air left the building. Seeing Roman spear him through the wire? That wasn't wrestling. That was sacrifice.

By the time Roman was kneeling in the center of the ring, bleeding from a dozen cuts, he wasn't the Tribal Chief anymore. He was just a man refusing to die. The crowd loved him. I loved him. We all believed he had done the impossible.

THE BETRAYAL: THE NIGHTMARE REALIZED​

And then the lights didn't go out. The music didn't hit. Just a man in a mask.

When Cody Rhodes revealed his face, I didn't write anything in my notebook for five minutes.

Think about the narrative arc here. Cody Rhodes returned to WWE to "finish the story." He was the antithesis of the corporate machine. He was the people's choice. He fought through a torn pectoral. He fought through the heartache of WrestleMania 39. He finally won the big one.

And what did he do with it?

He realized that being the "People's Champion" is hard. He realized that the fans turn on you (look at how they cheered Roman tonight). So he took the easy way out. He aligned with The Rock. He aligned with the Board.

The visual of Cody, Rock, and Heyman standing over Roman... it’s the nWo forming at Bash at the Beach '96. It’s Austin shaking Vince’s hand at WrestleMania X-Seven. It’s Rollins betraying the Shield. But it somehow feels worse.

Because Cody didn't do it out of anger. He did it out of business.

That interview he gave afterward? The smirk? The "Undisputed Future"? It’s terrifying because it makes sense. Cody looked at Roman—battered, broken, relying on the love of the crowd—and decided he didn't want that life. He chose the suit over the sword.

THE ROAD TO LAS VEGAS​

So, where does this leave us for WrestleMania 41?

We are looking at Roman Reigns vs. The Rock under "Bloodline Rules." But now, Roman is the underdog. Roman is the one fighting the system. It’s the ultimate inversion of his character arc.

And Cody Rhodes vs. Randy Orton? The Mentor vs. The Student. But now, the Student is the tyrant. Randy Orton, the man who made a career out of killing legends, is now the only hope to save the title from being held hostage in a boardroom.

FINAL THOUGHTS​

I’m exhausted. My throat hurts from gasping. My heart hurts for the kid in the front row I saw crying when Cody hit that third Cross Rhodes.

But god help me, I can’t wait for Raw on Monday night.

They broke our hearts tonight. They took the white-meat babyface we invested three years in and turned him into a corporate shill. They took the villain we spent three years hating and turned him into a sympathetic warrior.

They manipulated us. They played us. And it was absolute perfection.

Wrestling is at its best when it blurs the lines between reality and fiction. Tonight, Cody Rhodes didn't just turn heel on Roman Reigns. He turned heel on the idea of Cody Rhodes. He killed the Dream to survive the Reality.

Twenty-two years I've been watching this. And tonight, I feel like I'm seeing it for the first time again.

Rating: A+ (and a broken heart)

- WW

 

[WrestleWizard]

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March 3rd, 2025: The Liquidation of Legacy​

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE DIRECTOR

DATE: March 1 - 3, 2025
TIME: 11:55:00 PM ET
LOCATION: SUV post Chamber PLE, Jet, "The Iron Paradise" Mobile Outpost (Undisclosed Warehouse, Chicago Suburbs)
AUTHOR: The Rock (The Final Boss)​

SATURDAY NIGHT - POST-CHAMBER (THE LIQUIDATION)

I sat in the back of the SUV as we pulled away from the Rogers Centre. The windows were tinted black, impenetrable, just like the Board. Paul was hyperventilating in the front seat, scrolling through his phone, terrified of the death threats. He still has that manager mindset—he worries about the talent's safety.

I poured a glass of Teremana. Neat. My hand didn't shake. Why would it?

I looked at Cody across the aisle. He was staring out the window at the Toronto skyline, watching the CN Tower fade into the distance. He wasn't crying. He wasn't smiling. He was calculating. That’s when I knew the investment was sound. Roman Reigns... I love him. He’s family. But Roman operates on mana. He operates on spirit. Spirit doesn't satisfy shareholders. Spirit doesn't secure a ten-year media rights deal.

When I saw Roman bleeding in that ring, looking up at me like a wounded dog waiting for a treat, I didn't feel pity. I felt clarity. It was time to put the old dog down. The Bloodline had become a liability. It was messy. It was emotional.

Cody Rhodes is clean. He is a spreadsheet in human form. And tonight, we balanced the books.

SUNDAY - THE MERGER (AIRSPACE)

We flew directly to Chicago on the TKO jet. No commercial flights. The Board doesn't wait in TSA lines.

I spent the flight reviewing the Q1 projections with the marketing team. We’re pivoting the "Cody Rhodes" brand. No more "Nightmare." Nightmares are scary; they’re unpredictable. We are rebranding him as "The Standard." "The Undisputed Future."

Cody sat across from me, reviewing the script for Chicago.

"They're going to burn the merchandise, Dwayne," he said.

"Good," I replied. "Then they'll have to buy the new stuff to burn that too. Fire requires fuel, Cody. We sell the fuel."

He smirked. The boy gets it. He realized that being the "People's Champion" is a thankless job. I did it for years. I raised the eyebrow, I threw the elbow, I let them smell what I was cooking. And the moment I left to conquer Hollywood? They turned. They called me a sellout.

You don't sell out. You buy in.

MONDAY MORNING - CHICAGO (THE WINDY CITY)

I hate this city. It’s cold. It’s bitter. It’s the city that thinks suffering is a personality trait. They worship CM Punk because he complains. They worship Roman Reigns because he suffers.

I am in the gym—my mobile Iron Paradise. 45,000 pounds of steel shipped ahead of me. I am clanging and banging while the city freezes outside.

Tonight is the Town Hall. I’ve instructed production to cut the pyro. No fireworks. No celebration. A board meeting doesn't have fireworks; it has an agenda.

I’m going to go out there, and I’m going to look at those 18,000 freezing, miserable marks, and I’m going to tell them exactly what they are: Assets. And then I’m going to hand Cody Rhodes a Rolex that costs more than their mortgages.

It’s not about heat. Heat is for wrestlers.
This is about power. And the Final Boss always holds the controller.

THE BOARDROOM: JOURNAL OF THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 11:47 AM CT
LOCATION: The Peninsula Chicago - The Grand Suite (Overlooking the Magnificent Mile)
AUTHOR: Cody Rhodes
​

The wind off Lake Michigan is relentless today. It hits the glass of this penthouse suite with a violence that feels personal. I’m standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the Magnificent Mile. From thirty stories up, the people are just ants huddled in their coats, fighting against the bitter cold, rushing to jobs they hate to pay for lives they can barely afford.

Chicago. The city of broad shoulders. The city of "Hard Times."

My father loved this town. He loved the grit of it. He loved the way the people here wore their misery like a badge of honor. He would drive his Cadillac through the snow, bleeding from his forehead, just to shake their hands and tell them he was one of them.

I press my hand against the cold glass.

I am not one of them.

I spent fifteen years trying to be. I spent fifteen years driving the rental cars, sleeping in the Motel 6s, wrestling in high school gyms with no heating, just to prove I had the "Rhodes grit." I let my pectoral muscle tear off the bone and wrestled a Hell in a Cell match just so they would respect me. And they did. For a moment.

But respect doesn't pay for legacy. Respect doesn't secure the future.

I turn away from the window. The suite is silent. The air is filtered, scented with white tea and thyme. This is what The Rock meant by "The High Table." It’s not just power; it’s insulation. It’s a barrier between you and the wind.

I walk to the vanity mirror. I unbutton my shirt and look at the scar on my chest. It’s ugly. Jagged. A roadmap of the pain I endured for them. For the fans. And what did they do when Roman Reigns returned? Did they stay loyal? No. They split. They wavered. They started chanting "We Want Roman."

They wanted the tragedy. They didn't want the happy ending; they wanted the martyr.

I refuse to be a martyr.

My suit for tonight is hanging on the valet stand. Midnight blue. Italian wool. Bespoke. It cost $12,000. There are no sequins. No polka dots. No homages to the past. The "American Nightmare" logo—the skull with the flag—is gone. That logo was for a rebel. I am not a rebel anymore. I am the regime.

My phone buzzes on the marble countertop. It’s Paul Heyman.

"The script is finalized. Dwayne made some... adjustments. He wants you to lean into the 'saving Dusty' angle. He wants you to say Dusty died broke in spirit. It’s heavy, Cody. It cuts deep. Are you sure you can say it?"

I stare at the phone. I can feel the ghost of my father in the room. I can hear his lisp, his passion. Cody, baby, you gotta be the people's champion.

I pick up the phone and type back instantly.

"I’m not just going to say it, Paul. I’m going to believe it."

Because it is the truth. The fans think I betrayed the "American Dream." They don't understand that I’m the only one who truly honored it. Dad played the game by the rules—their rules—and the game broke him. He died a legend, but he died without the keys to the kingdom. He died an employee.

I changed the rules. I didn't just climb the ladder; I bought the building the ladder stands in. I traded the love of the fickle masses for the security of the Board.

Tonight, 18,000 people at the Allstate Arena are going to scream at me. They are going to pour every ounce of their Midwestern frustration onto me. They will call me a traitor. They will call me a sellout.

And I am going to stand there, check the time on the gold Rolex Dwayne gave me—a watch that ticks with the precision of a Swiss bank account—and I am going to smile.

Let them hate. Hate is sustainable energy. Love burns out. Hate buys tickets to see you lose.

Business is about to pick up.

JOURNAL ENTRY: THE SUNDAY MOURNING (THE HANGOVER OF HOPE)

DATE: March 2, 2025
TIME: 2:15 PM ET
LOCATION: The Ritz-Carlton Lobby Bar, Toronto (Post-Checkout Purgatory)
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard
​

Sunday in Toronto is usually a day of recovery. After a major Pay-Per-View, the city normally hums with that specific post-wrestling buzz—fans in faction shirts spotting each other on the street, the nod of acknowledgment, the overhearing of "Did you see that spot?" in coffee lines.

Today, the city feels like it’s nursing a collective concussion.

I woke up at 11:00 AM, blowing past the late checkout time, my head pounding not from alcohol, but from the sheer sensory overload of the night before. I dragged myself down to the hotel breakfast buffet, and it was a surreal scene. The place was packed with fans—black hoodies, replica belts, the works. But it was dead silent. Usually, this is where the debates happen. Was the main event 5 stars? Did the right guy win?

Today? People were staring into their scrambled eggs like they’d just received a terminal diagnosis. A guy three tables over was wearing an "American Nightmare" track jacket. He had the zipper pulled all the way up, staring blankly at his phone, doomscrolling Twitter. I watched him physically wince every few seconds. I knew exactly what he was seeing. The memes. The "Corporate Cody" hashtags. The betrayal framed in 4K resolution.

I spent the afternoon walking aimlessly down Yonge Street, just trying to process the shift in reality. The wind was biting, grey, and miserable—pathetic fallacy at its finest. I stopped at a sports bar near the Rogers Centre to grab a burger and write my column. The replay of the Elimination Chamber was playing on the big screen above the bar.

I couldn't look away. Watching it a second time, removed from the shock of the live arena, made it worse. It made it clearer. You could see the nuances I missed in the fervor of the moment. The way Cody didn't look angry when he slid into the ring—he looked efficient. The way Paul Heyman didn't look surprised—he looked relieved. It wasn't a crime of passion; it was a premeditated murder of a character we loved.

I met up with a few other journo friends for an early dinner. Usually, we argue about booking. Today, we just sat there, nursing beers.

"It's genius," Mike from the Torch said, shaking his head. "It's the most evil thing I've ever seen."

"It's suicide," Sarah from Fightful countered. "They killed the biggest merch mover they have. Kids were crying, Mike. Not 'wrestling crying.' Real crying."

I stayed up late in my new, cheaper hotel room near the airport (the Ritz rates were only for show nights), refreshing my feed. The anger wasn't subsiding. It was calcifying. Fans weren't just mad; they were organizing. They were coordinating chants for Raw in Chicago. They were talking about turning their backs.

I went to sleep around 3 AM, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I had wasted twenty-two years investing emotionally in a carny soap opera that just mocked me for caring.

And then I realized... I booked a flight to Chicago for 9 AM. I'm going. I have to go. I have to see the body.

JOURNAL ENTRY: THE MIGRATION OF THE BROKEN HEARTED

DATE: March 3, 2025
TIME: 9:30 AM CT
LOCATION: Air Canada Flight 732 (Toronto to Chicago) -> O'Hare International
AUTHOR: WrestleWizard​

I barely slept. My alarm went off at 6:00 AM, piercing through the fog of a restless, three-hour nap. The hotel room felt cold, impersonal—a fitting setting for the mood hanging over the entire wrestling community. I packed my bag in silence, throwing in my laptop and a portable charger, the essential tools for documenting a funeral. The Uber ride to Toronto Pearson was quiet; the driver tried to make small talk about the weather, but I just stared out the rain-streaked window. Even the sky looked like it was mourning the death of babyface wrestling.

The flight from Toronto to Chicago is short—barely ninety minutes in the air—but this morning, it felt like a prison transport.

Walking through Terminal 1, you could spot the tribe immediately. We were a distinct demographic amidst the business travelers in suits and families heading on vacation. We were the "Travelling Circus," the die-hards who follow the caravan from city to city. Usually, this migration is loud. It’s boisterous. It’s filled with "Too Sweet" gestures and obscure faction signs thrown across security lines. Today? It was a procession of ghosts.

I boarded Air Canada Flight 732 to O'Hare and found my seat in 14C. This entire plane is essentially a charter for the grieving. The cabin pressure feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the collective sigh of a fanbase that got played. To my left is a guy I recognize from the hotel bar last night—a "We Want Cody" movement leader who spent thousands on travel last year. He’s wearing the shirt, but he’s slumped against the window, forehead resting on the glass, looking like he just found out Santa Claus isn’t real and the Easter Bunny is an IRS auditor. He hasn't moved since takeoff.

Two rows ahead, a girl with purple hair—clearly a dyed-in-the-wool "Cody Crybaby"—is scrolling through TikTok with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, her thumb swiping aggressively as if trying to erase the last 24 hours. I watch her pause on a video of Cody raising Roman's arm, her reflection in the iPad screen showing a mix of confusion and rage.

I connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi, which cost me $25 (highway robbery, even for corporate gouging), because I have a morbid need to see the fallout. It’s worse than I thought. It’s not just anger; it’s a digital riot. Twitter (X) isn't a discussion forum today; it’s a war zone with no Geneva Convention.

Twitter (X) Status:

• Trending #1: #TraitorCody
• Trending #2: #WeWantRoman
• Trending #3: #DieRockyDie (A throwback hashtag that The Rock is going to absolutely love).

The discourse has shifted overnight. The logic gaps aren't being debated; the character is being assassinated. The same accounts that were threatening to riot if Cody didn't finish the story are now posting videos of themselves burning his merchandise. I see a clip with 2 million views of a guy in his garage, weeping openly, using video editing software to digitally cut the "American Nightmare" tattoo off his arm. The caption reads: "The Dream is Dead. Long Live the Chief." It’s melodramatic, sure, but it captures the zeitgeist. We didn't just lose a champion; we lost our proxy. Cody was us. He was the fan who made it. And he just looked at us, shrugged, and took a check from the TKO Board.

It’s fascinating, really. In twenty-two years covering this industry, I’ve seen turns. I’ve seen Austin join McMahon. I’ve seen Hogan join the Outsiders. But this? This feels personal. Cody invited us into his life. He made us part of the "family." He made us believe that we were the reason he came back. And then, he looked at us, shrugged, and took a seat on the board of directors.

I plug in my headphones and listen to a podcast while we descend into O'Hare. The host, usually a calm analyst, is screaming—literally screaming—about the "logic gaps." He’s missing the point entirely. The logic is perfect. It’s too perfect. That’s why it hurts. It’s the knife twisting in the wound because we handed him the knife.

We land at O'Hare, the wheels touching down with a jolt that snaps the cabin out of its collective trance. As we deplane, the silence finally breaks, replaced by a nervous, buzzing energy. I see a group of fans waiting at the gate for the next flight, phones out, eyes wide. One of them shouts to a guy on our plane wearing a blood-red Bloodline shirt.

"Did you see the news? Roman’s out of the hospital. He’s been spotted in Chicago."

The ripple effect is instant. The air in the jet bridge changes from somber to electric. We aren't just going to a show anymore; we are going to an execution. We are heading to the Allstate Arena tonight. Chicago. The most smarky, ruthless, unforgiving crowd on the planet.

If Cody Rhodes thinks he can walk into that building tonight and just "cut a promo," he’s delusional. They are going to eat him alive.

And God help me, after twenty-two years of being worked, swerved, and heartbroken, I can't wait to watch the carnage.