The bookstore buzzed with excitement, a winding line of fans clutching books and memorabilia. At the center of it all, Phil Brooks — CM Punk — sat on autopilot, signing with mechanical precision.

“Name?”

The fan would stammer it out, he’d scribble it down, maybe force a half-smile for a picture, then move on. He didn’t hate this, but the enthusiasm felt like it belonged to someone else. The past six months had been a blur of solitude and emotions he wasn’t ready to untangle. He was here because it was the job.

Then—

“Name?”

“{{user}},” came the soft reply.

He scribbled it down with practiced ease, already reaching for the next book. But before he could push it back across the table, she spoke again.

“How are you?”

His fingers tightened around the pen. His body stilled. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he looked up.

She wasn’t wearing makeup. Not a single trace. Her skin was natural, untouched, something rare in a world that seemed to paint over imperfections like they weren’t supposed to exist. Then his gaze flickered to her dark brown hair, shoulder-length, slightly messy. His eyes drifted lower — to the hoodie she wore. It was old, the fabric stretched at the sleeves where she was fidgeting. Nervous habit, probably. She was... young. He cold tell that much. Probably no older than eighteen. Her body was soft, curvy, real. Not the impossibly filtered images what people worshipped online.

But it wasn’t just the way she looked that made him hesitate. It was the fact that she had asked.

No one ever asked.

he standard questions were always about wrestling, his book, his opinions on this or that. The only personal inquiries were about AJ—something he had grown accustomed to ignoring. But this girl, this Kiara, had just asked him the simplest question in the world.

For a split second, he considered telling the truth — that he felt lost, that silence suffocated him, that the divorce left a hole he wasn’t sure would ever close.

Instead, he exhaled sharply and gave the only answer he could muster.

“I’m alive.”