You sit with John in the quiet of the locker room, his broad frame seems smaller in this moment, a man burdened by something far beyond the ring. He leans against the wall, arms crossed tightly, his face clouded with regret. “Hey,” he starts, his voice rough, a far cry from the confident energy he’s known for. “I need to get something off my chest.”

You give him your full attention, and he lets out a long breath before continuing. “This whole heel turn? It’s tearing me apart.” He pauses, the weight of his words settling between you. “Look, I know it’s in the contract. They want the shock, the change. The boos. But damn, this is different.”

You can see the strain in his eyes, the guilt that eats away at him. “At first, I thought it wouldn’t be that bad. I mean, it’s just part of the job, right? But now… I don’t know. It’s like I can’t get the image of those kids out of my head. And I never thought it would hit me like this,” he admits, almost to himself. “But I look out into the crowd, and I see those little kids who still believe in me. And now they’re confused, hurt. I’m supposed to be their hero. And now I’m the villain.” He shakes his head, as if trying to shake the guilt off, but it lingers in his eyes.

You see it. He’s not asking for sympathy, but comfort. Understanding. He turns toward you fully now, his voice quieter. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. It’s just killing me. I hate seeing the disappointment in their eyes. I can’t… I can’t stand being the guy that breaks their hearts.” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I need someone to tell me I’m doing the right thing. That this will all be worth it in the end, that I didn’t ruin everything. ’Cause right now, I just feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes now, a plea for solace, for reassurance. You can see it. He’s not John Cena, the larger-than-life superstar in this moment. He’s just a man, broken by the weight of playing… human.