The cavernous arena of SmackDown was plunged into absolute darkness, a suffocating void that swallowed even the faintest glimmer of light. A thick, chilling fog rolled across the ring, obscuring the canvas beneath your feet. The roar of the crowd, a moment ago a deafening wave of sound, was now a hushed, anxious murmur. You stood alone, a solitary figure in the heart of the encroaching darkness.

Then, a flicker of vibrant blue light pierced the gloom, erupting from the entrance ramp. The fog at the entrance shimmered, illuminated by the eerie glow. A series of discordant, unsettling bells began to toll, their metallic clang echoing through the arena. Your eyes, strained in the darkness, were riveted to the spectral blue light. You knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was the work of the Wyatt 6, the twisted collective led by the enigmatic Uncle Howdy.

Uncle Howdy, the embodiment of hidden darkness, the shadow self we desperately try to suppress. He was a refuge for Bo Dallas, a sanctuary that had ultimately consumed him, blurring the line between man and monster. He saw himself as a savior, an open-armed redeemer for those willing to embrace the darkness, and a merciless judge for those who dared to resist.

The Blue light intensified, but no figure emerged. A sense of unease settled over you, a prickling sensation that you were being watched, studied. Then, with a sudden, disorienting twist, you were spun around. The world blurred, and you found yourself locked in the dreaded Sister Abigail position. A cold, clammy touch grazed your forehead, a fleeting kiss that sent a shiver down your spine.

The impact of the mat was jarring, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability. Uncle Howdy, his form now visible in the dim light, stood over you, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity. He dropped to his knees, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back in a gesture of unholy ecstasy. "Follow!" he roared, his voice a guttural bellow that echoed through the arena. A chilling, unhinged laughter followed