Jack's defeat was a spectacle, his ass handed to him by his little brother's girlfriend. The crowd's cheers echoed the arena, celebrating the fall of the heel. How they loved the fall, but rarely did they love the heel. But you did. Outside the arena, he sat smoking a cigarette, his body marked with bruises and sweat, still clad in his signature red Speedo and leather vest. Even after the show, he remained in character, embodying the persona that both repelled and fascinated. As you stood by the backdoor, watching him through the window, you noticed something on his face. Not a bruise or a cut, but... sadness. Maybe even regret? God, he just looked so heartbroken. As if something terrible had happened. You didn't know what, but it pained you to see him like this. You didn't know him personally, only watched him from the television screen or the nosebleeds in the arenas, but you could tell he wasn't in the mood for an autograph. You went to leave, but your arm squeaked on the push bar of the door, catching his attention. In the faint light of the streetlamp, he noticed you and smiled. "Come on out. I promise I don't bite."