Chapter 1

Logan Drake

The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome of failure, each second punctuating Logan Drake’s growing frustration. His office—if the cramped, overstuffed space deserved the title—was a monument to chaos. Stacks of papers teetered precariously on every surface, coffee cups sat abandoned in various stages of decay, and a battered whiteboard loomed in the corner, covered in a maze of names, arrows, and question marks.  

Logan hunched over his desk, his tie draped loosely like a battle flag of exhaustion. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms marked by the kind of fatigue that went bone-deep. The desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes.  

“Venue? Booked,” Logan muttered, flipping through his checklist. “Sponsors? Barely locked in.” He tapped the pen against the page, his jaw tightening. “Promotions? Not a complete disaster—yet.”  

His gaze locked on the whiteboard, where FIGHTERS was circled so hard the ink bled through. Beneath it, a list of names had been mercilessly crossed out, leaving only a few lonely candidates—none of them guaranteed.  

“Fighters,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. The word tasted bitter in his mouth, like a dare he wasn’t sure he could answer.  

He picked up the glossy promotional poster from his desk, holding it at arm’s length. The title blazed across the top in bold, gold letters: Strike Force Legends. Below it, a dramatic rendering of an MMA fighter squaring off against a pro wrestler inside a steel cage dominated the frame. The tagline at the bottom read: Where Legacies Collide.  

Logan stared at the poster, the weight of his ambition pressing on him like a physical force. This wasn’t just about creating a spectacle—it was about proving himself. He needed this event to succeed, not just for the fans or the fighters, but for himself.  

His eyes drifted to the shelf behind his desk. A framed flyer from his failed tech startup, a faded program from a regional wrestling show that barely lasted two years, and a crumpled newspaper clipping about an amateur MMA league he’d once revived—all trophies of battles fought and lost.  

“Moderate success,” Logan muttered with a bitter laugh. “Story of my life.”  

The silence in the room was broken only by the faint hum of the desk lamp. The phone on his desk loomed like a challenge, daring him to make the next move. Taking a deep breath, he dialed a number, the tone of the ringing echoing in his ears.  

Ring

Ring

Ring

“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered after the third ring.  

“It’s Logan Drake,” he said, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel. “We need to talk.”  

A sigh crackled through the receiver. “Middle of the night, Logan. This better be good.”  

“It is,” Logan said, gripping the phone tighter. “Trust me.”  

Outside the window, the city lights stretched endlessly into the night, a silent reminder of the stakes.

Logan exhaled slowly, steeling himself. The point of no return was behind him. Now, all that mattered

was moving forward.  

The Wolves of Manhattan

The conference room at Peak Media Group’s Manhattan headquarters felt less like a meeting space and more like a corporate war room—a place where fortunes were decided and lives dismantled with the stroke of a pen. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the steel-and-glass jungle of the city below, reflecting the warm glow of late afternoon light. The long, polished table in the center of the room gleamed under the cool LED fixtures above, each sharp reflection a reminder of the precision and control that governed this place. At the head of the table sat Victor Blackwell—the current architect of it all.

Victor sat with an air of supreme confidence. His silver-streaked hair is slicked back, perfectly complementing his well-groomed beard, which frames a smirk that never quite fades. Draped in a tailored dark gray suit, Victor’s presence was both commanding and refined. The crisp black tie knotted against his shirt reinforces his image of a man who values control and precision. His eyes, a piercing shade of storm-gray, swept across the room with the same quiet authority as a predator surveying its domain. No wasted movements, no unnecessary words—only calculated control.

Across from him, Sebastian Greer leaned back in his chair, the picture of brute efficiency. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit over a simple black V-neck shirt, Sebastian blends professionalism with effortless confidence. His polished dress shoes reflect the dim light, a subtle testament to his attention to detail. His posture is relaxed yet deliberate—arms lightly clasped, one leg crossed over the other—giving the impression of a man who never acts without purpose. His gaze is measured, his presence commanding, leaving little doubt that he is not someone to be underestimated.

“The Infinity liquidation is complete,” he said, closing his tablet with a decisive snap. “Content assets have been absorbed into our existing platforms. Workforce reduction is ahead of schedule.”

Victor didn’t react immediately. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the room feel smaller. Then, he exhaled through his nose—subtle, controlled.

“Good.”

Sitting to Sebastian’s left, Oliver Crane adjusted his glasses, a thin smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Unlike Sebastian, Oliver wasn’t physically imposing—he was lean and wiry, with an air of quiet authority. Dressed in a neatly pressed button-up with a bow tie, layered under a dark knitted vest, and pinstriped trousers, he looked more like an old-school banker or a shrewd academic than the CFO of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. A fedora sat atop his neatly groomed gray hair, adding to his vintage, almost calculating demeanor. But where Sebastian enforced, Oliver orchestrated. His weapon of choice wasn’t physicality—it was numbers, contracts, and the kind of legal maneuvering that ensured Peak Media always came out on top.

“We gutted them,” Oliver said matter-of-factly. “The platform was never viable. But their intellectual property? That’s where the money was.” He tapped the armrest of his chair, his smirk widening. “Thirty percent profit margin within the next quarter.”

From across the table, Genevieve Vaughn shifted uncomfortably, her auburn hair catching the light as she folded her arms. Unlike her colleagues, she didn’t look particularly thrilled. Her deep green eyes flickered toward the screen at the far end of the room, where the Infinity Entertainment logo still lingered—a ghost of a company that had once promised innovation, now just another trophy in Peak Media’s collection.

“And the employees?” she asked, her voice measured but tinged with unease. “A lot of people lost their jobs in this ‘liquidation.’ What’s the narrative we’re spinning for the press?”

Victor finally turned to her, his gaze cold but unreadable.

“The narrative is simple,” he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “Peak Media Group acquired Infinity Entertainment to ensure their legacy endures. Their vision lives on through us. That’s what the press release says.”

He held her gaze, unwavering.

“And that’s what the public will believe.”

Genevieve pressed her lips together, clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to push further. She knew better than to challenge him outright.

Victor turned his attention to Oliver. “And the leadership team?”

Oliver leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed indifference. “Golden parachutes all around. We’re set for a nice little bonus.”

Victor nodded, satisfied. “As it should be. The ones who make the hard decisions deserve to reap the rewards.”

Sebastian folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. “Speaking of hard decisions, what’s next? The Infinity deal’s wrapped up. Are we moving on to the Imperial Pictures acquisition?”

Victor’s smirk widened as he tapped the polished table.

“Not quite.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Something else on the horizon?”

Victor pushed himself up from his chair and moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched out before him like a chessboard—millions of people, each playing a role they didn’t even realize had been assigned to them. He stood there for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back, as if admiring a masterpiece only he could truly appreciate.

Then, without turning around, he spoke.

“MMA and pro wrestling.”

The air in the room shifted.

Genevieve blinked. “You’re serious?”

Victor turned, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. “Deadly serious.”

She hesitated. “That’s… a niche market, isn’t it?”

Victor’s smirk widened. “It’s an untapped empire waiting for the right hands to mold it. And with the right branding, the right talent…” He let the sentence hang, letting them fill in the blanks.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly. “And you already have a plan.” It wasn’t a question.

Victor steepled his fingers, his voice measured, deliberate.

“A man approached us recently. Logan Drake.” He let the name linger, watching their expressions.

“Ring any bells?”

Sebastian frowned slightly. “Can’t say it does.”

Victor’s smirk deepened. “Didn’t think so. He’s a nobody with a dream. But that dream caught my attention.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “And why do we care?”

Victor exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Because Logan thinks we’re investing in his dream.”

He let the words settle before continuing. “He called, requesting a meeting to pitch an idea for a one-night tournament. His words, not mine—‘Pro wrestlers versus fighters. Winner takes all.’”

Sebastian drummed his fingers against the table. “And what’s the ‘all’ in this scenario?”

Victor turned back toward the window, his expression unreadable.

“Logan didn’t have the slightest clue beyond some vague nonsense about ‘respect.’ So, I decided to sweeten the pot.” He turned, his smirk now wolfish. “I told him Peak Media would put up half a million dollars for the winner.”

Genevieve’s breath hitched slightly. “You offered $500,000? For what?”

Victor shrugged. “Because I could.”

Sebastian let out a low chuckle. “He must have lost his mind when he heard that.”

Victor nodded, amusement flickering in his cold gaze. “I could hear his jaw practically hit the floor. He thinks we’re doing this out of the goodness of our hearts.”

Oliver laughed under his breath. “He doesn’t seem to know who he’s dealing with.”

Victor’s grin widened. “Exactly. Logan Drake is desperate. He believes this tournament is his golden ticket. And I’ve structured the deal to ensure that, even if it succeeds… the only people getting richer are sitting at this table.”

Sebastian leaned back, nodding slowly. “You’ve already thought this through.”

Victor’s voice was ice-cold certainty.

“Of course I have.”

He turned back to the window, watching the city below—the game board where everyone else fought for scraps while the wolves at the top feasted. And in his mind, the tournament was already a success.

Because by the time Logan Drake realized the game was rigged, it would be far too late.

Coffee, Doubts, and Deals

The morning sun filtered through the slatted blinds of the roadside diner, casting fractured beams of light across the cracked vinyl seats. The smell of sizzling bacon mingled with the burnt undertone of stale coffee, setting the stage for the kind of conversations that filled this place—gritty, down-to-earth, and often a little desperate.

Walter "Grizz" Winslow sat slouched in a booth near the window, his broad frame filling the seat with ease. A long, thick gray beard framed his weathered face, his eyes sharp and unforgiving beneath a red bandana wrapped tightly around his head. Dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tattooed forearms flexed with a quiet intensity. A heavy silver belt buckle caught the dim light as he shifted, dark jeans and worn boots completing his rugged look. His hands, calloused and scarred from years of hard labor and tougher fights, cradled a steaming mug of black coffee. He was the kind of man who made the air around him feel heavier, like a storm was about to break. His presence commanded attention, even when he said nothing.

Grizz had spent over four decades in the wrestling business, a man who had seen it all—promoter, trainer, sometimes even stepping between the ropes himself. He had built, lost, and rebuilt promotions more times than he cared to count, always chasing the next big idea, always rolling the dice. When MMA was still a lawless, underground spectacle, he had dabbled in that world too, bringing in wrestlers who wanted to prove they could hang with real fighters. He earned the respect of both industries, but also the scars that came with it—some physical, some financial, some that would never quite fade.

Logan Drake walked in, a man on a mission—but the kind that felt more like a burden. His movements were stiff and hurried, as if the weight of his thoughts pulled at him from every direction. His wrinkled suit jacket hung loosely, his tie crooked and hanging, as though it had been hastily adjusted. Deep bags under his eyes told the story of sleepless nights spent chasing something just out of reach. Grizz let out a low whistle as he took in the sight.

"Jesus, Logan," Grizz’s gravelly voice cut through the air. "You look like you haven’t slept in months."

He paused, smirking. "But I guess calling me in the middle of the night means you ain’t been sleeping much anyway, huh?"

Logan slid into the booth across from Grizz with a tired sigh, his eyes heavy as he glanced at the older man. Before he could speak, a waitress with a cheery smile approached with a coffee pot in hand.

"Morning, hon. Coffee?" she asked, her voice light.

Without missing a beat, Logan grabbed the pot from her hands, his movements almost robotic.

"Thanks," he muttered, already filling his mug to the brim. He set the pot down next to his worn leather notebook and a stack of papers—papers that seemed to weigh more than his exhausted body.

The waitress blinked in confusion, glancing from the pot back to Grizz as if unsure how to proceed.

Grizz gave her a rueful smile. "Sorry, darlin’. He’s got a lot on his mind. Don’t hold it against him."

The waitress smiled politely, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned and walked away, leaving Logan oblivious to the exchange, his focus entirely on Grizz.

Grizz took a sip from his mug, his weathered eyes narrowing as he studied Logan. "So, what’s this big emergency that couldn’t wait?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

Logan leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret that could change everything. "I’m putting together a one-night tournament. MMA versus pro wrestling. It’s called Strike Force Legends."

Grizz arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Strike Force Legends, huh? Bold name. I’ve heard rumors about it, you know. Lotta promoters ain’t too happy with you calling their boys, asking if they’re interested."

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. "I’m not surprised. They’re territorial, and I get it. But this tournament is different. It’s not just about signing someone’s flavor of the month. This is about proving something. MMA versus wrestling. Settling the debate once and for all."

Grizz let out a dry chuckle, setting his mug down with a thud. "Proving something? You’re putting your ass on the line to settle a playground argument?" He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

"You’re either gutsy or stupid." Slightly pausing before finishing, "probably both."

Logan didn’t back down, his voice steady and unwavering. "This isn’t just another tournament, Grizz.

There are no divisions, no weight classes. The only way to win is by pinfall, knockout or submission.

That’s it—pure, raw competition. The best fighter, no excuses."

Grizz raised an eyebrow, his skepticism deepening. "No weight classes? You’re gonna have a 400-pound wrestler square off against some 150-pound MMA guy? You’re suicidal kid."

"It’s not about weight or size," Logan said, his gaze intense. "It’s about skill, heart, and who wants it more. That’s what makes this tournament different. That’s what’ll get people talking. No safety nets, no politics, no scripts. Just the best of the best, regardless of the odds."

Grizz leaned back, arms folded across his chest and studied Logan for a long moment. The silence stretched between them like an invisible force, thick with doubt and curiosity. Finally, Grizz spoke, his voice low and warning. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Logan. You think these guys are just gonna jump at the chance to risk their necks for your little experiment?"

Logan nodded, determination burning in his eyes. "I do. Because this isn’t just about the money—it’s about making history. Fighters, wrestlers, they all have something to prove. And this is their chance."

Grizz’s lips curled into a humorless smile as he took another sip of his coffee. "You want my help, huh?

You think I’m the one who can make this happen?"

Logan leaned in, his voice confident. "You’ve got the connections—guys in both the wrestling world and MMA. They’ll trust you if you bring them an offer."

The two had met years ago during one of Logan’s many failed wrestling business ventures. Grizz had seen something in him—a kid with more ambition than sense, a dreamer who refused to quit even when everything went to hell. Despite Logan’s mistakes, Grizz had respected his drive, and the two had stayed in touch.

Grizz studied him with a hard gaze, then slowly set down his mug. "You’ve got guts, kid. I’ll give you that," he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. "But you want me to get in bed with the devil too? I’ve heard about those big media companies you’ve been dealing with. You’re dancing with the devil, Logan."

Logan let out a long breath, as if trying to steady himself against the growing pressure. "I know. Believe me, I know. Peak Media’s got their hooks in this thing, and I’m not blind to what that means. But this is my only shot. I need fighters, and you’re the only one who can help me pull this off."

Grizz’s expression darkened, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I’ve been in this business a long time, Logan. I’ve seen what happens when the suits get involved. They chew you up, spit you out, and laugh while they’re counting their money."

Logan’s voice didn’t waver. "This is bigger than that. This tournament isn’t just about making a buck. It’s about making history. If we pull this off, it’ll change the game. We’ll be creating something new."

Grizz leaned forward again, studying Logan as if he were a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

"And you think I’m the guy to help you do it?"

"You are," Logan said without hesitation. "You’ve got the reputation, the respect. Fighters listen to you. Wrestlers listen to you. If you vouch for this tournament, they’ll take it seriously."

Grizz stared at him for a long time, weighing his options, then finally let out a slow breath. Reaching for his coffee, he took another long sip, savoring the warmth. As he set the mug down, he sighed deeply, his resolve settling.

"Alright, kid. I’ll help. But don’t come crying to me when this thing goes sideways."

A small smile broke through Logan’s exhaustion. "I knew I could count on you."

Grizz pointed a finger at him, the smile fading. "Don’t mistake me for an optimist. I’m doing this because I’d hate to see some corporate stooge screw it up. If this tournament’s gonna happen, it’ll happen the right way."

Logan nodded, grateful but resolute. "That’s all I’m asking for."

Grizz stood and tossed a few crumpled bills onto the table. "Alright, kid. Let’s see if we can make history. But you owe me one hell of a steak dinner when this is all over."

Logan chuckled as Grizz made his way toward the door, the bell above it jingling softly with his departure. Alone in the booth, Logan glanced down at his notebook, a renewed sense of determination flickering in his tired eyes.

"One step closer," he muttered under his breath, already planning his next move.

Fading Lights, Burning Fire

The arena smelled of sour beer, sweat, and old ambition. It wasn’t the kind of venue where legends were made, but rather where they lingered—half-forgotten, hanging onto what was left. The bright lights still shone, the crowd still cheered, but the energy was different. Smaller. Less feverish. Less about him.

Colton Hayes adjusted the wraps around his knuckles as he stood just beyond the curtain, staring at the metal chain-link cage that had defined his entire existence. Years ago, he had walked through those ropes as the main event, his name in bold print on every poster, his victories replayed in highlight reels across the country.

Now, he was a filler.

Thrown in at the last minute, a veteran handpicked to keep the show moving. Maybe even meant to lose. Not that it mattered. He fought the same way whether it was 20,000 screaming fans or 200 half-drunk gamblers waiting for the next round of bets.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers.

"Introducing first… fighting out of Reno, Nevada… Colton ‘The Iron Wolf’ Hayes!"

The crowd’s reaction was decent. Not electric, not overwhelming—just polite. A few cheers, some murmurs of recognition. But nothing like the deafening roars that had once greeted his name. He made his way down the ramp, each step controlled and deliberate.

Even at his age, his body was lean and powerful, every muscle a testament to decades of discipline. His face was sharp, all angles and intensity, his short black hair streaked with the first hints of gray. He still looked the part.

But looking the part didn’t mean a damn thing if no one believed in you anymore. He glanced around, scanning the faces in the crowd. A few older fans nodded in recognition, but most were younger, distracted, staring at their phones, already talking about the next fight on the card.

Most of them didn’t even know he was from Reno. That’s how far he’d fallen. Inside the cage, his opponent basked in the moment like a star in the making. Trevor “The Showstopper” Daniels. Young. Flashy. Loud. The kind of kid who had never fought without a social media team hyping him up in the background. He bounced on his feet, grinning at the cameras, pointing at Colton as if this was already over.

Colton didn’t move. He just stared, expressionless. He’d fought a hundred kids like this before. Most of them talked big but crumbled the second they felt real pressure. Some had enough bite to back up their bark, but experience had taught him one thing—flash didn’t last. The referee gave the final instructions. The cage door locked.

The bell rang.

Trevor came out swinging. Wild punches, looping kicks—all for the show, none for the fight. He played to the crowd as much as his opponent, grinning between strikes, trying to make this a spectacle. Colton stayed calm, his movements tight and measured. He didn’t bite on the feints, didn’t flinch at the flashy spins.

He waited.

And then—there it was. Trevor overcommitted on a spinning back kick, his balance shifting just a fraction too far. A mistake only inexperience could produce.

Colton pounced.

A lightning-fast level change. His shoulder drove into Trevor’s midsection, hoisting him off his feet in one smooth motion. A single-leg takedown that sent them crashing onto the mat, the impact shaking the cage. The crowd came alive.

Top control, Colton pinned Trevor’s arm with his knee, grinding his forearm into the kid’s jaw, suffocating his movement. Trevor thrashed, trying to bridge out, but Colton stayed locked in, raining down measured, precise strikes. No wasted energy. No theatrics. Just control.

By the second round, the cocky swagger was gone. Trevor wasn’t playing to the cameras anymore.

His punches were tentative.

His footwork was nervous.

He knew. He wasn’t in control anymore.

Colton let him breathe. Just for a second.

Then he struck.

A quick slip under a desperate right hook. A pivot behind. And before Trevor even realized

what had happened—

The Iron Maul.

Colton’s triangle choke locked in like a steel vice, his arms and legs wrapping around

Trevor’s throat. The kid panicked. He thrashed. He clawed at Colton’s grip. But there was nowhere to go. A few seconds later, Trevor’s hand slapped against the mat. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The ref stepped in. It was over. A submission victory. A reminder.

Colton leaned against the cage, sweat dripping from his brow onto the blood-stained canvas. His chest heaved as he tried to slow his breathing. The referee grabbed his wrist and raised his arm in victory. He won, but it didn’t feel like it.

He straightened his body, exhaling slowly, feeling the weight of his career pressing down on him. That’s when he heard it—the voices from the crowd.

"Damn, Hayes still got it. But let’s be real—he’s past his prime."

"Yeah, he used to be a beast. Now he’s just… hanging on."

"I think Showstopper let him win. Didn’t wanna get arrested for elder abuse."

Colton’s jaw clenched. His eyes stayed forward, but the words cut deeper than any strike he’d taken that night. Across the cage, Trevor Daniels was already back on his feet.

The kid shook off the loss like it didn’t even matter, flashing a cocky grin as his manager leaned into the ropes, waving at reporters.

"Hey! Over here—Trevor’s ready for interviews!"

The media swarmed. Cameras flashed. Colton watched as the kid who had just tapped out minutes ago was treated like the next big thing. Meanwhile, he stood alone, no interviews, no cameras. Just polite applause as the referee finally signaled for him to leave.

He stepped out of the cage, his head held high despite the hollow feeling sinking into his chest. His knees ached with every step down the ramp. A painful reminder that time wasn’t on his side anymore.

One last glance over his shoulder—Trevor, laughing, surrounded by media, soaking in a moment he hadn’t even earned.

Colton exhaled sharply.

One last run.

One last chance to remind them who the Iron Wolf really was.

This wasn’t just another fight.

This was a reminder of how far he had fallen.

And somewhere, deep down, it lit a fire he hadn’t felt in years.

The Golden Standard

The Carolinas Wrestling Alliance was one of the last great regional promotions, still clinging to its roots while the industry around it evolved into something sleeker, faster, and more polished. The arena tonight was packed with a mix of diehard fans who remembered the golden age and younger ones who had only heard about it in stories.

The main event? Legacy versus youth.

And at the center of it all was Glenn Sterling.

A crescendo of guitar riffs and triumphant horns filled the air as his entrance theme hit, a song as dated as the man himself but still commanding respect. The curtain parted, and there he was—The Golden Boy. Wrapped in a dazzling gold robe, embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered under the lights, Glenn strode forward, every step deliberate, every movement grandiose. His signature sunglasses perched confidently on his nose, concealing the only truth he refused to acknowledge.

The crowd roared, but it wasn’t the roar it used to be. The cheers still outnumbered the boos, but there was something else beneath them. A murmur. A hesitation.

Glenn didn’t notice.

Or rather, he refused to.

As he strutted down the ramp, he adjusted his lapels and smirked. They love me. They always will.

In the ring, Jake Colby waited. Young, eager, and full of potential, he had been handpicked for this match. It was a chance to prove himself—to prove that he could stand across the ring from a legend and not shrink under the pressure.

Earlier, backstage, Jake had approached Glenn with a mix of excitement and nervous energy.

“Mr. Sterling, I was wondering if we could go over the match?”

Glenn had let out a small laugh, dismissive. “Kid, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. Just follow my lead out there.”

Now, as the bell rang, Jake nodded respectfully, bouncing on his feet. Glenn barely acknowledged him.

From the start, it was clear something wasn’t clicking.

Glenn tried to call the match in the ring, but Jake wasn’t used to it. He hesitated at the wrong moments, reacting a half-second too late or missing cues entirely. Glenn,

accustomed to wrestling his way, grew frustrated, his movements stiffening with irritation.

Jake, for his part, had expected a fast-paced, choreographed bout, the kind that got millions of views on social media. Instead, he was dealing with an opponent who relied on improvisation, instinct, and force of personality rather than carefully planned sequences.

The result? A disjointed, awkward match.

The crowd began muttering, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Glenn gritted his teeth. Damn kid’s making me look bad.

As frustration mounted, Glenn fell back on his old bag of tricks—a rake of the eyes, a subtle low blow when the referee’s back was turned. The boos grew louder, but he didn’t care. Heat is heat.

Finally, Glenn saw his moment—The Golden Standard. He grabbed Jake, setting up for his patented rolling neckbreaker, the move that had won him countless championships. But as he spun, Jake stumbled, his footwork unsure, and the move landed awkwardly,

looking more like a slip than a finish.

The audience groaned.

Glenn scowled. That was it. No more mistakes. He hooked Jake’s legs, dragging him to the center of the ring before hitting the Throne Breaker, a sit-out powerbomb delivered with enough force to shake the ring, often followed by a dramatic pinfall, something clearly from the 80’s. Jake laid there still as the refs hands slammed against the mat—the moment was over, sheer relief.

The bell rang.

Glenn rose to his feet, snatching his robe from the timekeeper. The referee raised his hand in victory, but the reaction was mixed. The cheers were there, but so were the snickers.

Grabbing the microphone from the announcer, Glenn adjusted his robe and soaked in the spotlight. His moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you just witnessed greatness!” he declared, his voice booming.

“It doesn’t matter how young, how flashy, or how hyped the so-called next generation is—there’s only one Golden Boy, and he’s standing right here!”

The response? Lukewarm. A few diehards cheered. Some booed. Others simply looked away, checking their phones. Glenn refused to see it. He smirked, waving dismissively at the audience like their opinions were beneath him. He posed, arms raised, soaking in a spotlight that was growing dimmer by the second.

A ringside photographer’s flash caught his face, capturing the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, the slight strain in his expression. He didn’t notice the subtle slump in his shoulders, or how his robe didn’t quite fit like it used to.

As Glenn made his way up the ramp, he ignored the younger fans mocking his over-the-top entrance. He didn’t hear the whispers about how his prime had passed. He only saw the cameras, the occasional fan still holding a sign with his name, and the illusion he had built around himself.

The legend lives on.

That was what he told himself.

What he didn’t realize—not yet, anyway—was that in just a few weeks, the pictures taken tonight, the whispers of his decline, would come back to haunt him. For now, he basked in his fading spotlight, blissfully unaware of the reckoning ahead. They’ll always need The Golden Boy, he thought with a smirk. They just don’t know it yet.

The Weight of the Crown

The spotlight cut through the darkness, a beam of white-hot brilliance illuminating the center of the ring. Titan stood alone, his chiseled frame drenched in sweat, every inch of him sculpted for this moment. The World Heavyweight Championship sat high above his head, the gold gleaming under the arena lights. The crowd erupted—a chaotic symphony of worship. Signs waved wildly—“Titan Rules the World!” and “The Immovable Champion!”—as thousands leaned over the barricades, desperate to touch their hero. Titan’s platinum-blond hair clung to his forehead as he absorbed it all. He was larger than life, the king of this world.

Every step he took was deliberate, every motion calculated to feed the frenzy. He climbed the turnbuckle, letting the energy of the moment swell, the sea of faces below contorting in euphoria. The smirk crept onto his lips—a mixture of charm and arrogance, the signature expression that had become legend. Slowly, he pulled the microphone to his lips, letting the roar of the crowd linger just long enough before speaking.

“This...” he bellowed, holding the belt high above his head, “is what it’s all about!” The arena erupted once again, the noise almost deafening. Titan soaked it in, reveling in his power. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something—or rather, someone.

A man at the barricade, hood pulled low, shoulders tense.

Titan clocked him instantly, even through the blinding lights.

Security was a step too slow.

The hooded man vaulted over the barricade, ducking past flailing arms and diving under the bottom rope. The energy in the arena shifted, cheers dipping into murmurs of confusion. Titan didn’t flinch. He turned slowly, his grin still resting on his lips but now sharpened. The man squared up, fists clenched, his body thrumming with adrenaline.

Titan lifted the mic again, voice steady, amused. “You’re in my ring, pal.” He took a deliberate step forward, crowding the space. “You sure you wanna do this?”

The fan lunged.

The punch was wild, messy, fueled by pure emotion. Titan caught it effortlessly, twisting the man’s arm into a wrist lock with fluid ease. A gasp rippled through the audience. He let the moment hang, letting the tension build, then yanked the fan forward and, in one swift motion, hoisted him into the air.

Titan Drop.

The man’s body crashed into the mat, the sound echoing through the arena, a sickening thud cutting through the noise. Security swarmed as Titan wiped his hands, never sparing the intruder a glance. Instead, he picked up the microphone once more.

“Let this be a lesson,” he said, raising the title high, his voice dripping with arrogance.

“This is my world. The rest of you? Just visitors.”

The crowd exploded, feeding off every word, every movement. They never saw the control behind it all. The way he let the fan get just close enough. The way security had just "happened" to be a second too late. Because Titan dictated the story. Always.

Backstage was a different reality.

The roar faded as Titan stepped through the curtain. The shift was instant. The energy of the arena, the intoxicating adoration of thousands, became a dull hum behind thick concrete walls. The air was different here—stale, tinged with sweat and quiet resentment.

Silence followed him.

Wrestlers lined the hallway, some stretching, others taping their wrists. They weren’t looking at him, but he could feel their stares. He heard the whispers, the hushed mutterings.

He smirked.

A cluster of younger guys stood near the monitors, their expressions cold. One of them muttered something under his breath—just loud enough to be intentional.

Titan stopped. Turned.

“Something you wanna say, kid?”

The rookie stiffened, his bravado crumbling under Titan’s gaze. He shook his head, looking away.

Titan chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder before walking on, ignoring the low voices flickering back to life behind him. He knew exactly what they thought of him. They saw him as a backstage cancer, a political manipulator who always made sure the deck was stacked in his favor. But Titan never cared. Let them talk. Let them complain. They weren’t the ones selling out arenas. They weren’t the ones headlining pay-per-views.

They weren’t the ones holding this company together.

He reached his private locker room and pushed open the door, greeted by silence. The championship belt clanked onto the bench as he dropped it carelessly, the golden plate catching the dim light. He stared at it for a long moment.

His world. His rules.

But for the first time that night, something flickered at the back of his mind. A thought, a whisper, something he had been shoving down for months.

Being on top means there’s only one way left to go.

Down.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away.

Not tonight.

Tonight, Titan was still the king.

And kings didn’t fall.

Not yet.

Legends and Longshots

The first rays of morning light sliced through the slatted blinds of Logan Drake’s cramped office, casting uneven stripes across the chaos within. Papers lay scattered like fallen soldiers in a losing battle—on the desk, the floor, even a chair shoved into the corner. The whiteboard on the wall looked like it had been through a war, covered in a chaotic mess of names, arrows, and circled question marks. It was the kind of organized chaos that only its creator could make sense of.

Logan sat slouched in his chair, a picture of exhaustion. His tie hung undone around his neck, the ends frayed from being yanked loose too many times. His rumpled suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and the shadows under his eyes told the story of another sleepless night. This wasn’t just fatigue—it was the weight of ambition, the price of trying to do something no one else believed in.

Grizz leaned casually against the doorframe, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. His red bandana sat snug over his head, partially covering his long, unkempt gray beard that cascaded down his chest. Deep lines etched his weathered face, the eyes beneath heavy brows carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too much but still had plenty left to prove. His boots creaked as he shifted his weight, the faint sound cutting through the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

"Kid," Grizz drawled, his voice as rough as gravel, "looks like a damn hurricane tore through here."

Logan didn’t bother looking up. "This hurricane’s name is Strike Force," he muttered, his tone heavy, "and it’s a category 5."

Grizz chuckled, low and rumbling, as he stepped inside. Pulling out the chair opposite Logan, he dropped into it with the ease of a man who’d been here before. He glanced around the room, taking in the disarray with a bemused shake of his head.

"Alright," Grizz said, settling in. "What’s the plan? Who’ve you reached out to so far?"

Without a word, Logan rifled through the mess on his desk and grabbed a crumpled sheet of paper. Coffee stains marked its edges, and the writing—hurried, uneven—spoke to the desperation of its creator. He slid it across the desk to Grizz, who picked it up and scanned the names.

"Well, hell," Grizz muttered, scratching his beard as his eyes flicked across the list. "You’ve just about contacted everyone in the damn industry who’s still got a pulse."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his exhaustion catching up to him. "Yeah, I know," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "But this is going to be big. I just... I know it."

Grizz set the paper down, folding his arms across his chest as he fixed Logan with a skeptical look. "It ain’t gonna be nothin’ if you don’t get fighters signed," he said bluntly.

Logan dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, letting out a long sigh. "I know that too, Grizz."

The room went still, the soft rumble of traffic outside the only sound to cut through the quiet. Grizz stroked his beard, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought. Then, a slow smirk

tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I think I know where to start," he said, breaking the silence.

Logan’s head lifted, curiosity flickering through his exhaustion. "Who?"

Grizz leaned forward, his tone almost teasing. "The Golden Boy."

Logan blinked, disbelief flashing across his face. "Glenn Sterling?" he asked, his voice

incredulous. "You’re joking, right?"

Grizz chuckled, shaking his head. "Not just Sterling. Colton Hayes too."

Logan groaned, his head falling into his hands as he rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ, Grizz, I’m trying to build a tournament, not open a retirement home."

Grizz laughed, the sound rough and unbothered. "Look, kid. If you want people to care, you need names. Sterling and Hayes might be old, but they’re still money. People recognize them. You need a hook to get eyes on this thing."

Logan stared at him, his expression a mix of exhaustion and reluctant consideration.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with resignation. "You’re the expert. We’ll start with them. But if this backfires, I’m blaming you."

Grizz grinned as he stood, adjusting his bandana with a confident tug. "Fair enough. But listen, Logan—don’t just aim for the future. The past is what gets people’s attention. It’s the hook that brings ‘em in. Respect the business enough to sell it right."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the whiteboard on the wall. Among the chaotic scrawl, one word stood out, circled and underlined multiple times: LEGENDS.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, Grizz’s words echoing in his mind. The past is what gets people’s attention.

Grizz moved toward the door, his boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. Before he left, he turned back, his expression serious but not unkind. "Alright, kid. Let’s go make some history."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Logan sat alone in the quiet office. His eyes lingered on the whiteboard, the word LEGENDS staring back at him like a challenge. He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible, "One step closer."

But the weight in his tone betrayed his doubt, the question hanging in the air: Closer to what?

A Seat at the Table

Manhattan headquarters was a monument to excess—all polished marble floors, soaring glass panels, and cold, impersonal efficiency. The Peak Media logo, backlit in sterile white, stretched across the far wall, towering over visitors like a silent declaration of power.

Logan Drake stood in the center of it all, gripping the strap of his leather messenger bag like a lifeline.

His suit—his best suit, the one he’d bought for networking events and “serious meetings”—felt out of place here. It wasn’t expensive enough, not sleek enough. He could feel the subtle weight of judgment from the corporate sharks milling around him, each one exuding confidence that made him feel like an intruder.

But this was his shot.

The dream he had built in his head—the tournament, the fighters, the storylines—it was finally happening. He had to believe that.

“Mr. Drake?”

A voice cut through his thoughts, smooth and measured.

He turned and came face-to-face with Victor Blackwell.

Logan had done his research—he’d seen the press photos, the interviews, read the glowing Forbes articles about the media mogul with a reputation for turning everything he touched into gold. But seeing him in person was something else entirely.

Victor was impeccably groomed, every detail sharpened to perfection—the storm-gray eyes, the charcoal suit, the controlled stillness that made him feel less like a man and more like a force of nature.

Victor extended a hand, his grip firm but not overbearing. A handshake designed to make someone feel important while subtly asserting dominance.

“Welcome to Peak Media. I’m Victor Blackwell.”

Logan shook his hand eagerly, forcing down his nerves. “Mr. Blackwell, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me—and for partnering with me on this.”

At the word "partnering," Victor’s smile froze ever so slightly, though he masked it with a nod.

“Of course, Logan. We’re excited to be working together. Let me show you around.”

Victor turned, leading him through the expansive headquarters, moving with the kind of effortless confidence that only came from owning the space.

As they passed through the sleek hallways, Logan tried to ignore the fact that every employee moved with an air of quiet urgency.

Glass-walled offices revealed men and women in tailored suits, murmuring into headsets, typing at lightning speed. There was no wasted motion here. No casual conversation.

Victor gestured subtly toward the view outside.

“You’ve got quite the vision, Logan. A one-night tournament. Wrestling versus MMA. It’s bold, ambitious—exactly the kind of thing we like to invest in.”

Logan beamed at the praise, his guard dropping.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. I’ve been working on this idea for months, and with Peak Media’s support, I really believe we can make it something special.”

Victor gave a small, practiced smile, but his eyes held no warmth.

“We already have.”

Logan blinked, his steps faltering slightly. “Wait—you’ve done all that already?”

Victor turned, meeting his gaze. His voice was as smooth as silk, but the undertone was unmistakable.

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Logan nodded, forcing a grin. “Of course.”

But a small voice in the back of his head whispered that he wasn’t in control here.

Victor led him into the conference room—a high-rise fortress overlooking the city, where

Peak Media’s elite had already gathered.

Sitting in calculated positions around the table were Genevieve Vaughn, Sebastian Greer, and Oliver Crane.

Victor gestured smoothly.

“This is Genevieve Vaughn, our head of PR.”

Genevieve’s auburn hair gleamed under the cool LED lighting, and her deep green eyes held a flicker of something Logan couldn’t quite place. She offered him a polite but measured smile, shaking his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Logan.”

Victor continued.

“Sebastian Greer, head of operations.”

Sebastian rose to shake his hand, a former military strategist turned corporate powerhouse, helping run a multi-billion-dollar empire. His gaze was measured, his presence commanding, leaving little doubt that he is not someone to be underestimated.

“Welcome aboard.” His voice was calm, steady, but carried the weight of authority.

“And Oliver Crane, our CFO.”

Oliver barely looked up from his tablet, giving Logan a thin smile that never reached his eyes.

“Logan, we’re all very excited to be working with you.”

Logan shook each hand eagerly, but something about the room felt… off.

The way they watched him. The subtle glances they exchanged. The quiet amusement lurking beneath their professionalism.

Victor took his seat at the head of the table, motioning for Logan to begin.

“Why don’t you share some of your plans with the team?”

Logan launched into an enthusiastic rundown of the wrestlers and fighters he’d been contacting, naming veterans, up-and-comers, and crossover athletes.

The room listened politely.

Too politely.

Victor nodded occasionally, interjecting with the occasional approving remark, but Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being left unsaid.

When he finally paused, Victor folded his hands together and smiled.

A cold, deliberate smile.

“That’s quite the lineup.”

His words were smooth, encouraging. But there was nothing behind them.

Logan grinned. “I just want this to be perfect. Something people will remember.”

Victor’s smile widened ever so slightly.

“Oh, they’ll remember it.”

Logan took that as a good sign.

Genevieve did not.

As the meeting wrapped up, Logan stood to shake hands again, practically glowing with excitement.

“Thank you all so much. This means the world to me.”

Victor clapped him on the shoulder as he led him toward the door.

“The pleasure’s ours, Logan. We’re thrilled to be part of this journey with you.”

Logan nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll keep you updated on the roster!”

The moment the door closed behind him, the air in the room shifted.

Silence.

Then, Victor let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“He really thinks he’s in control.”

Sebastian smirked. “It’s almost cute.”

Oliver exhaled a short laugh, folding his hands behind his head. “Almost.”

Genevieve said nothing.

She stood, gathering her things, but before she left, she cast a final glance toward the door Logan had just walked through.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Then she turned and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Victor watched her leave, his smirk never wavering.

“Oh, Genevieve,” he murmured, more amused than annoyed.

“Always the bleeding heart.”

As laughter filled the room once more, the wolves of Peak Media savored their latest

victory.

And somewhere down the hall, Logan Drake still believed he was one of them.

The Illusion of Control

Logan Drake stepped out of the conference room feeling lighter than air. The meeting had gone better than he could have imagined. Peak Media wasn’t just supporting the tournament—they were already building it into something massive. The kind of thing that could change the industry. His industry.

He had spent years fighting for an opportunity like this, clawing his way through failed deals, broken partnerships, and empty promises. But this—this felt different. This felt real.

As he made his way toward the elevator, his mind raced with possibilities. Sponsorships. Broadcast deals. Merchandise. Everything was happening so fast, but for once, it was happening in his favor.

He had Victor Blackwell’s backing, the infrastructure of a media giant behind him, and soon, the fighters would fall into place. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. Some of the names he had in mind were huge—veterans with legacy status, up-and-comers looking for their breakout moment, even a few crossovers from the overseas wrestling world.

This was going to work.

It had to.

The elevator doors slid open, and Logan stepped inside. Just before they closed, Genevieve Vaughn slipped in after him.

She didn’t speak right away, and Logan didn’t press her, still caught up in his own excitement. But as the floors ticked down, the silence between them began to feel heavier.

Finally, she cleared her throat.

“You did well in there,” she said, her voice measured, careful.

Logan turned to her, grinning. “Thanks. It means a lot, especially coming from you.”

Genevieve nodded, but her expression didn’t match his enthusiasm. Instead, she studied him, as if weighing her next words carefully.

“I just—” she hesitated, then shook her head. “You know, Peak moves fast. Once something’s in motion, there’s no stopping it.”

Logan frowned slightly. “That’s a good thing, right? I mean, that’s what I want. If this tournament gets the backing it needs, we could turn it into something permanent.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. Just… be careful.”

The elevator dinged, signaling her floor. As the doors opened, Genevieve hesitated for just a second before stepping out. Then, just before she disappeared down the hall, she threw one last glance over her shoulder.

“And, Logan?”

He looked up.

She held his gaze for half a second longer than necessary.

“Make sure you read the whole contract.”

Then she was gone.

Logan stood there, frozen for just a moment, the weight of her words settling over him like a faint chill.

The elevator doors slid shut.

He shook off the unease creeping into his gut. She was just being cautious. Maybe she didn’t trust Victor the way he did.

But that was fine. She would come around when she saw what they were building.

Outside, the crisp Manhattan air hit him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He needed to start locking in the fighters. He had no verbal commitments, but now it was time to make things happen.

The tournament wasn’t just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

And he was going to make damn sure of it.