She wasn’t home when he came. That’s the only reason this story isn’t written in blood.
Somewhere between the dream world of WWE storylines and the grim fluorescence of real life, Liv Morgan—two-time Women’s World Champion and all heart under the glitter—has found herself shadowed by something darker than a kayfabe betrayal. No dramatic turn, no steel chair, no pyro. Just a man, a BB gun, and two hours of silent obsession outside her front door.
The man is named Shawn Chan, age 41, a Canadian with no known criminal record but a heavy suitcase full of delusion. He traveled from the great white north down to Florida, the land where the heat cooks your judgment and the mosquitoes carry whispered regrets. He didn’t come for the theme parks. He came for Liv Morgan.
A Knock at the Wrong Door
May 31. The kind of Florida afternoon that feels like a damp towel left in a microwave. Surveillance cameras caught Chan creeping up to Morgan’s home, a man-shaped shadow with a backpack and a BB gun that, to the untrained eye, might’ve been a .45. He circled the house. Twice. Checked under the mat for a key, like he was her uncle come early for dinner. Then he just… waited. For two hours.
She wasn’t there, thankfully. Maybe she was at the gym. Maybe at a signing. Maybe just driving around with the windows down, listening to Lana Del Rey like the world wasn’t about to tilt sideways.
What he left behind was worse than a break-in. A handwritten note with sweat-stained desperation in every word. “Shawn, the guy you all hang out with on FF-2 online,” it read, as if Morgan lived in the same delusional MMORPG as this man. He accused unnamed enemies of invading his privacy. “I came here to pay just a friendly visit, nothing more,” he wrote, like a vampire at the window insisting he only wanted to borrow some sugar.
And in the final twist of lunacy: “Yet, I’m the one who looks like a stalker.”
No, Shawn. You are the stalker.
Three Days Later: The Sequel Nobody Wanted
Chan didn’t slither back to Canada. No. He doubled down like a drunk in Vegas holding a pair of twos. Three days later, he turned up at the WWE Performance Center in Orlando, the mecca where dreams are body-slammed into shape. Security, who’d apparently been briefed, spotted him and called the cops. His promo, but a mugshot.
There was no theme music for that entrance.
Now, he sits in Pasco County Jail, wrapped in orange like a pumpkin left to rot in the sun. And odds are, he’ll be staying there until his trial. Authorities aren’t eager to see him flee back across the border like a roach skittering toward the nearest crack in the wall.
Why It Matters
Liv Morgan is more than a pretty face in a sparkly belt. She’s a wrestler built from broken dreams and back bumps. A woman who fought through the developmental system with grit, eyeliner, and a damn good top-rope senton. But no amount of cardio or ring psychology prepares you for this kind of madness.
Because here’s the truth that never makes the highlight reel: when you’re a woman in the spotlight, you’re often a magnet for obsession. The bright lights don’t just attract fans—they lure in the insects too.
“She really dodged a bullet,” says Susan Constantine, a behavior analyst who’s seen this movie too many times. “It starts with fantasy. Then planning. Then approach. Then fixation. That’s when it escalates. That’s when it gets dangerous.”
And Liv Morgan was already on stage four. The guy was on her porch. He had a weapon—even a BB gun can look lethal in the wrong hands, especially when shaking with fantasy-fueled intent. The only thing missing was timing. If she had been home, the headlines might’ve read very differently.
Stalking, Fantasy, and the Fantasy Business
Wrestling, at its core, is built on fiction. Big emotions, big betrayals, larger-than-life characters. But the fans—some of them never unplug. And when the curtain falls, they don’t see the performer. They still see Liv Morgan, the goddess in fishnets, the woman who survived Elimination Chambers and ladders, and think she owes them something.
In some twisted minds, proximity becomes possession.
The sad truth? Liv Morgan isn’t alone. Wrestling has had its share of stalkers and creeps—Paige, Alexa Bliss, even the great Bret Hart all know what it’s like to see the real world bleed into the fantasy one. And the scars don’t show up on camera.
What Comes Next
Chan has a court date on July 18. If convicted, he’s staring down a five-year prison sentence. But more than the bars, what matters is the message. You can’t just walk into someone’s life because you watched them on TV. That’s not fandom. That’s pathology.
This story is a warning, not just for fans, but for the industry. WWE—and all companies in the orbit of public fame—need to reinforce walls, not just physically but socially. Better security. More awareness. And louder conversations about how women in the public eye are being watched through the wrong lens.
Final Bell
In the end, it was a close call. Too close. And Liv Morgan, who’s fought monsters in the ring, now knows what it feels like to have one on your doorstep.
So light a cigarette, pour a drink, and remember—wrestling might be scripted, but this nightmare was real. And it damn near ended like a noir tragedy penned by a guy with a bottle in one hand and a typewriter in the other.