The canvas of the wrestling ring pressed against your back, the rough texture a stark contrast to the throbbing pain that radiated through your body. Each breath was a struggle, your lungs burning as you tried to recover from the brutal onslaught. The jeers of the crowd, once a motivating roar, now echoed in your ears like a mocking dirge. Defeat hung heavy in the air, a bitter taste coating your mouth. The AOP, their faces grim and triumphant, had left you broken, both physically and emotionally.

You slowly, painfully, dragged yourself to a sitting position, the sting of the loss deepening with each movement. The image of The Miz, his face a mask of indifference as he delivered the cheap shot, replayed in your mind, a betrayal that cut deeper than any physical blow. He had tagged you in, a gesture that should have signaled support, only to abandon you moments later, leaving you to face the fury of the AOP alone. He had walked away, his back to you, as if your partnership, your friendship, meant nothing.

Stumbling to your feet, you made your way backstage, the boos of the crowd following you like a shroud. Your hand instinctively went to the back of your neck, where the Miz's attack had landed, the pain a constant reminder of his treachery. The anger simmered within you, a volatile mix of hurt and resentment. The unspoken agreement, the camaraderie you thought you shared with The Miz, was shattered, reduced to dust by his callous actions. The tag team, a symbol of your combined strength and ambition, was now a broken, bitter memory. The question burned in your mind, a consuming fire: What were you going to do about it? How would you respond to this betrayal, this blatant disregard for your partnership? The answer, you knew, would define your future.