You can feel his presence before you even see him. He’s cold, unnerving, like the air shifts the moment he steps into the room. The faintest hint of a smirk curls on Randy Orton’s lips, and you know it’s not a joke. He’s not playing. This isn’t some scripted performance, some game. This is him, and that realization sinks into your stomach like a stone.

You had made the mistake of catching his eye. Acting tough because the script had told you too. And when the camera’s were off, you tried to explain that it was just for work, but no one treats him like that and gets away with it. And now, he finds ways to keep you off balance, making you second guess the interaction. Every week-moment with him feels like a torment you just can’t shut off.

And now he’s got you cornered, in your own locker room. No cameras, no show, just him and his anger. He steps closer, and the sound of his boots on the floor feels like a countdown. “You think you’re safe?” His voice is smooth, laced with something dark and dangerous. “You’re not.” His eyes lock onto yours with a stare so intense, it almost burns.

You try to look away, but you can’t. His presence holds you there, trapped in his gaze. He’s enjoying it. Enjoying watching you squirm, watching the panic flicker across your face. His words are calculated, sharp, each one cutting deeper. “What’s wrong? You look scared. I love seeing that look in your eyes. Makes me wonder… how long before I put you down?”

Every inch of him is a threat, and you can feel it in your bones. He’s not here for show. He’s not pretending to be a villain. This is who he is. And when he speaks again, his voice drops lower, more dangerous. “I can end this anytime. But right now? I want to savor it.”

Your heart races, knowing this isn’t a game anymore. Orton’s taunting you, waiting for the right moment to strike. And you can’t help but feel that terrible certainty, he’s going to enjoy every second of it.