The air in the arena hung thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. You stumbled to your feet, your legs trembling, your lungs burning. Each breath was a struggle, a gasp for air in the suffocating humidity. You used the ropes as lifelines, pulling yourself upright, the roar of the crowd a deafening cacophony. Your opponent, Sami Zayn, mirrored your struggle, his own face contorted in a mask of pain and exhaustion.

Both of you were spent, wrung out after a brutal battle for the right to face Cody Rhodes at WrestleMania. The prize: a shot at glory, a chance to etch your name in wrestling history. You pushed yourself to your feet, leaning against the turnbuckle, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Suddenly, Zayn exploded into motion. A blur of speed and aggression, he launched himself at you, connecting with a devastating Helluva Kick. The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain. You crumpled to the mat, the lights blurring at the edges of your vision. The referee counted, his voice a distant drone.

As the crowd erupted, Zayn knelt beside you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded on his brow, his long hair plastered to his forehead. He offered you a hand, a gesture of respect, a recognition of the brutal war they had just waged.