The crowd is electric. After nearly 30 minutes of nonstop action, Seth Rollins and CM Punk are both down, exhausted, bruised, but not broken. Every near-fall has brought the arena to its feet. The air is thick with anticipation — this isn’t just a match. This is personal.
Rollins drags himself to the corner, gasping for breath, eyes locked on Punk, who’s clutching his ribs. Seth lets out a war cry, stomping the mat, calling for the Stomp. The crowd rises, sensing the end. Punk slowly rises to his feet — barely able to stand. Rollins charges.
But Punk sidesteps! He catches Seth with a roundhouse kick! Rollins stumbles — and Punk hoists him up for the GTS.
He hits it!
Cover!
1… 2… Rollins gets his foot on the rope!
The crowd erupts. Punk sits up in disbelief, running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. Frustration boiling, he grabs Seth’s arm — looking for the Anaconda Vise.
But Rollins counters — rolling Punk into a small package!
1… 2… kick out!
Both men scramble to their feet. Punk swings — Rollins ducks — STOMP!
Cover!
1… 2… Punk kicks out at 2.9!
Rollins is stunned. He looks into the camera, eyes wild — yelling, “Stay down!”
He climbs the turnbuckle — Phoenix Splash!
He MISSES!
Punk locks in the Anaconda Vise in the center of the ring. Rollins screams, reaching — nowhere to go.
Suddenly — Drew McIntyre’s music hits. The distraction causes Punk to break the hold.
Rollins rolls him up from behind — grabs the tights!
1… 2… 3!
The bell rings. Rollins escapes, clutching the World Title.
Punk sits in the ring, fuming, r
obbed again.
This war is far from over.
