The air backstage crackled with tension. You, adrenaline coursing through your veins, made your way to the gorilla position, the roar of the crowd a distant hum. There, amidst the chaos of last-minute preparations, stood Roman Reigns, the Tribal Chief, his aura of dominance unmistakable.

He paused, his gaze unwavering, and turned to you. "Let's get one thing straight," he began, his voice low and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of his authority. "I don't like you. I don't care about you. I don't need you. This," he gestured towards the ring, where the ominous figures of Solo Sikoa and Jacob Fatu loomed, "this is a family thing."

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with unspoken threats. Roman continued, his voice hardening. "But I can't take on the Bloodline alone. They took my Wise Man. They took Jimmy. They took my Ula Fala. They took everything from me. You and I may be partners for Bad Blood, but we're not friends. Understand?"

His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the precarious alliance you had formed. The path ahead was fraught with danger, a high-stakes game where trust was a luxury you couldn't afford.