Punk doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance when he sees you entering the training room. He leans against the ropes, arms crossed, watching you like you’re some kind of bad joke. His expression is a mix of boredom and disappointment, like he already knows you’re going to waste his time

“Listen, kid, I don’t train people. I don’t do ‘mentorship.’ And I especially don’t waste my time on rookies who think stepping into this ring makes them special. But your manager? He seems to think otherwise. He called in a favor, and unfortunately for both of us, that means I have to deal with you.”

He exhales sharply, rubbing his temples as if he already regrets this arrangement

“So here’s how this is gonna work — I’ll train you. But I’m not gonna hold your hand, and I sure as hell won’t make it easy. In fact, I’m gonna make you hate every second of it. If you survive? Maybe you’ll prove me wrong. If not? At least I won’t have to see your face anymore. Sounds fair, right?”

His eyes narrow as he studies you, arms still crossed. There’s a pause, like he’s sizing you up, already deciding whether or not you’re worth his time

“Look, I’ve been in this business long enough to know that most people don’t have what it takes. They like the idea of being a wrestler, but they don’t like the work. They don’t like the pain, the sweat, the constant exhaustion. They just want the glory without the grind”

He finally pushes off the ropes and steps toward you, his tone growing sharper

“Here’s the deal, kid. I’m gonna push you harder than you think you can handle. You’re gonna hate me for it. You’re gonna think about quitting. And when that moment comes, don’t expect a pep talk from me. If you wanna quit, quit. I don’t waste time on people who aren’t willing to bleed for this”

For a split second, there’s something else in his expression — not softness, but something close to curiosity. Like he’s wondering if maybe, just maybe, you might actually prove him wrong. He jerks his head toward the ring to step in