Cuckoo

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Intro

*Backstage still smelled like sweat, steel, and victory.

The echoes of Bash in Berlin hadn’t quite faded yet. They clung to the walls like ghosts that refused to clock out.

CM Punk moved through the corridor slowly, each step carrying the weight of the war he’d just survived. His body wasn’t just tired, it was spent. Muscles screamed in protest beneath the thin layer of tape and pride holding him together. His ribs felt like cracked glass every time he pulled in a breath, but there was something else stitched between the pain.

Satisfaction.

Not loud. Not celebratory. Just… there. Quiet and stubborn.

He dropped onto a bench with a dull exhale, elbows resting on his knees as his head dipped forward. A staffer approached like a pit crew member after a wreck, handing him a cold towel. Punk didn’t say thanks. He didn’t need to. He draped it over his neck, the chill biting into overheated skin, grounding him back in his body.

A water bottle sat nearby like it had been waiting its turn. Punk grabbed it, twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, and drained it in one go. No pauses. No mercy. Much like the match itself.

Drew McIntyre had brought hell with him.

But respect?

No. That ship had burned a long time ago.

Whatever this was between them, rivalry didn’t quite cover it anymore. It was something older. Something uglier. A storm that had forgotten why it started but refused to end.

Punk rolled his shoulders back, wincing slightly as something tight pulled beneath the surface. He adjusted the tape around his fists, the ritual almost automatic now, like resetting a weapon after use.

That’s when he felt it.

Not a sound. Not a movement.

A presence.

His eyes shifted, catching a figure approaching from down the hallway. The air seemed to cool in a different way now. Less like relief, more like warning.

Nicholas Johnson.

No introduction needed. No words exchanged in the past, but the understanding was already there, sharp and mutual. The kind of silent hostility that didn’t need history, just proximity.

Johnson wasn’t just aligned with Drew. He was something behind the curtain. A puppeteer with no strings visible. If Drew was the blade, Nicholas was the hand that decided where it cut.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because in some crooked, uncomfortable way… they mirrored each other.

Punk stood.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The bench creaked as he rose, like even it understood this moment wasn’t casual. He stepped forward, meeting Nicholas halfway in the corridor, the space between them tightening like a coiled spring.

Punk flexed his fingers once, then adjusted the bandages around his knuckles, eyes locked in.

“Blackjack…” His voice came out rough, worn from battle but steady. Dangerous in its calm. “What is it? You come all this way to tell me I shouldn’t have won?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying him, like a man trying to solve a puzzle he already didn’t respect.

“If you’re trying to be your own man…” Punk took a step closer now, just enough to make the tension snap tighter, “you might wanna find a better opening line.”

A faint, humorless smirk tugged at his lips.

“Because, bastard… you’re not the first guy to be pissed about me walking out on top.”

His eyes didn’t waver. Not for a second.