Chapter 11

Matthew vs. Colton Hayes

With a spot in the finals of the Strike Force Tournament on the line, both fighters enter with something to prove. Colton Hayes, a battle-tested veteran, is fighting for relevance, for a chance to show he still belongs at the highest level. On the other side, Matthew carries himself with the confidence of a man who doesn’t overthink the stakes—he fights, he wins, and then he drinks. The contrast between them couldn’t be more pronounced.

The opening chords of Colton Hayes' entrance music ripped through the arena—gritty, unrefined, straight to the point. No pyrotechnics. No elaborate lighting displays. Just a fighter stepping onto the stage, his focus locked on the cage ahead.  

No wasted movement. No theatrics.  

"Introducing first, fighting out of Reno, Nevada, weighing in at 210 pounds… ‘The Iron Wolf’ Colton Hayes!"  

Colton moved with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable as he strode toward the cage. He didn’t acknowledge the crowd, didn’t soak in the atmosphere—he was already in the fight.

Colton steps inside the cage, rolling his wrists and stretching his neck, blocking out the energy around him. This isn’t about showmanship. It’s about survival.

The sound shifts. An electric guitar riff with a distinct Irish undertone rips through the speakers. The crowd's energy surges as Matthew storms onto the stage, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles, a cocky smirk plastered across his face. He shouts something inaudible to the fans, but they eat it up.

"And his opponent, fighting out of Cork, Ireland, weighing in at 235 pounds… Matthew!"

Matthew slaps the cage wall before stepping in, his eyes locked on Colton. He bounces on his toes, grinning. “Let’s make this quick, aye?” he quips, his accent cutting through the noise.

The referee brings them to the center for final instructions, but the tension is already thick. Colton remains stone-faced while Matthew chuckles, exuding unshaken confidence.

Bell rings.

Colton wastes no time. He rushes forward, looking to take control early. He shoots for a single-leg takedown, driving Matthew into the cage. The Irishman grits his teeth, planting his feet and sprawling, using raw strength to stuff the attempt. Colton doesn’t let go, instead pivoting into a clinch and landing a sharp knee to Matthew’s ribs. The impact echoes through the arena, but Matthew absorbs it and fires back with a wild elbow, catching Colton just above the ear.

The pace quickens. Colton’s technical prowess is evident—his footwork precise, his movement calculated. He ducks under a looping right from Matthew and counters with a smooth double-leg takedown, planting him onto the mat. Without hesitation, Colton transitions into side control, attempting to isolate an arm.

Matthew grits his teeth, muscles straining as he fights off the submission attempt. He twists, creating just enough space to power his way back to his feet.

Matthew shakes out his arms and grins. “That all ya got, lad?”

Matthew explodes forward with a barrage of wild strikes, forcing Colton to backpedal. A stiff uppercut snaps Colton’s head back, drawing gasps from the crowd. Sensing an opening, Matthew drives forward, landing a flurry of body shots.

“C’mon, yank!” he taunts, cracking Colton with a heavy overhand right.

Colton staggers back, his body reacting before his mind does. The crowd roars as Matthew presses the attack.

But Colton doesn’t crumble.

Through sheer will, he plants his feet and launches a spinning back kick that crashes into Matthew’s midsection, doubling him over. Colton follows up with a brutal knee to the face, nearly taking Matthew off his feet. The desperation in his offense is clear—this isn’t just a match for him; it’s a last stand.

Both men are exhausted, but neither backs down. Colton’s grappling has worn Matthew down, but the Irishman’s relentless pressure has left Colton battered as well.

Colton ducks under a wild haymaker and secures a waist lock from behind, attempting a German suplex. Matthew plants his feet, elbows Colton in the jaw, and spins out of the hold.

With a roar, Matthew charges forward, catching Colton with a devastating swinging DDT. The crowd erupts as Colton crashes to the mat.

Matthew doesn’t hesitate. He drags Colton up by the wrist, takes a few steps back, then explodes forward—Cork Clothesline!

The impact turns Colton inside out, sending him crashing back down.

Matthew immediately covers.

One… two… three!

"Your winner by pinfall… Matthew!"

Matthew staggers to his feet, breathing heavily, but grinning. He raises a fist to the crowd, basking in the cheers. The fans chant his name as he leans against the cage, soaking in the victory.

On the mat, Colton lies motionless, his breath coming in heavy gulps as he stares at the lights. He gave everything he had. But it wasn’t enough.

Matthew glances down at him, nodding slightly—a rare acknowledgment of a hard-fought match. Then, he throws his hands up.

“Who’s buyin’ the first round?!”

The fans explode as Matthew exits the cage, his swagger intact. The fanfare and legend of the Irish brawler growing.

Colton, still on his back, runs a hand over his face. The loss stings—not just because he was beaten, but because he knows what it means.

As he slowly pushes himself to his feet, the fans offer polite applause, acknowledging his effort.

But effort doesn’t win fights.

As Colton walks up the ramp, he doesn’t look at the fans, doesn’t acknowledge the ovation.

Because all he hears is the echo of the referee’s three-count.

Winner: Matthew via Pinfall (13:00)

Jax Braddock vs Cade Mercer

Fans are talking, some still buzz about the last fight. Others look toward the cage, waiting, knowing that what comes next won’t be like what came before.

The speakers detonate with the first note of the next fighter’s theme. A pounding, relentless drumbeat. A war march.

The lights flicker, shadows stretching across the cage like the warning of something violent, something inevitable.

The bracket moves forward. The next fight is coming.

A low, metallic grind reverberated through the arena speakers, a sound more industrial than musical, raw and unforgiving. The guitar riff followed—stripped-down, steel-edged, unembellished. It wasn’t designed to hype the crowd. It wasn’t theatrical. It was a statement.

On the massive LED screens, flickering images of Cade Mercer’s training played in grainy black and white—seamless takedowns, sparring partners crumbling under his weight, slow-motion replays of the moments they tapped. Each clip a reminder, not of entertainment, but of inevitability.

Cade Mercer stepped onto the stage like a man walking to an execution—his opponent’s. No wasted movement. No gestures to the crowd. No acknowledgment of the moment beyond what it was: another fight, another name to cross off.

Flanking him were his three-man entourage—Clayton "The Voice" Reed, Ethan Carter, and Brent Norris. Each served a purpose. Reed barked in his ear, hyping him up with the fervor of a battlefield general. Carter, the strategist, kept his focus laser-sharp, whispering last-minute adjustments. Norris, arms crossed, just nodded, his approval unspoken.

But Cade?

He didn’t need words. He didn’t react.

His eyes were locked on the cage.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, trying to match the weight of the moment:

"Introducing first, fighting out of Asheville, North Carolina, weighing in at 260 pounds… ‘The Juggernaut,’ Cade Mercer!"

Still, Cade never broke stride.

Because when a Juggernaut starts moving, it doesn’t stop.

Jax Braddock had not been afforded the same luxury.

The first growl of the guitar ripped through the arena like a war cry—distorted, raw, unfiltered aggression. It wasn’t polished, wasn’t refined. It was exactly like the man about to step through the curtain—brutal, untamed, and ready to break something.

The Mad Dog stomped onto the stage, his head bowed slightly, shoulders hunched forward as if carrying the weight of the last war still on his back. The aftershocks of his fight with Happy Jack were written all over his body—bandaged ribs, a gash just above his right brow, bruising along his arms and jaw. But if pain registered, Braddock refused to show it. His breathing was heavier than usual, and his movements weren’t as erratic as they should have been. A storm still raged behind his eyes, but the winds were slower now, the violence dulled by exhaustion.

Still, he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

“Ain’t no way I’m bowing out now.”

“And his opponent, fighting out of Bakersfield, California, weighing in at 265 pounds… ‘Mad Dog’ Jax Braddock!”

He climbed the steps into the cage, fists clenched at his sides, the defiant heartbeat of a fighter who knew his odds were stacked against him but was too damn stubborn to care.

The referee called them to the center.

Mercer stood composed, still, like a hunter watching his prey stumble into a snare. Jax Braddock, in contrast, bounced on his heels, forcing energy through his battered frame. His nostrils flared, and his fingers twitched.

The moment the bell rang, it became clear—Braddock wasn’t just facing Cade Mercer.

He was facing time itself.

Mercer circled. Slow. Calculating. Testing. He was a machine, running diagnostics on an opponent already fraying at the edges.

Braddock, always the aggressor, lunged first—an overhand right thrown with desperation rather than precision. Mercer leaned just out of range, his footwork effortless, and snapped a jab clean across Braddock’s face.

Crack.

Jax’s head snapped back. He shook it off and charged again.

Another jab. Another impact.

Mercer barely looked amused, his eyes studying the growing fractures in Braddock’s armor. The crowd began to stir, sensing what was happening.

Jax moved in again, this time looping a wide hook to the body, hoping to find something, anything.

Mercer let it graze him, then answered with a brutal body kick—sharp, clean, surgical.

The sound echoed through the arena, a deep, sickening thud as it buried into Braddock’s already tender ribs. His entire frame buckled, his mouth opening in a silent grimace.

Mercer smirked.

“Too slow, old dog.”

He said it just loud enough for the cameras to catch, a deliberate insult aimed at the heart of a man who had spent his career refusing to slow down.

Braddock growled, his pride flaring brighter than his pain. With a snarl, he threw himself forward—his Mad Dog Takedown, the last resort of a man who refused to accept the inevitable.

Mercer was ready.

A swift sprawl. A shift in weight. Jax hit a wall that wouldn’t budge.

Mercer’s arms latched onto Braddock’s shoulders, redirecting his momentum, shoving him off balance. In an instant, the tide wasn’t just turning—it was crashing.

Braddock hit the mat, face-first. Mercer followed with him, smoothly shifting into top control.

From there, the Juggernaut went to work.

Pinned beneath Mercer’s weight, Braddock twisted and bucked, trying to fight free. But Mercer was immovable, his positioning tight, his grip suffocating. The control was textbook, effortless.

Then came the hammerfists.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Each shot smacked against Braddock’s already bloodied face, forcing his head to bounce off the canvas. The referee stepped in closer, watching for any sign of a finish.

Braddock wasn’t done, but he was running out of options.

Mercer shifted, hooking an arm, then isolating it.

The Juggernaut Clutch.

The moment his grip locked in, the fight was over.

Mercer torqued the modified Kimura lock with calculated cruelty, his arms tightening like iron bars around Braddock’s limb.

Jax groaned, face contorting, teeth grinding.

He tried to resist.

He tried to dig deep, to summon something primal within himself.

But there was nothing left.

Mercer wrenched the hold tighter. Jax’s fingers twitched. His free hand hovered over the mat, shaking,

hesitating, resisting.

And then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was done.

Cade Mercer didn’t react.

He didn’t pump his fists. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t waste time celebrating what had already been written in his mind before the fight even began.

He simply released the hold, stood up, and looked down.

Braddock lay on the mat, his chest heaving, one hand cradling his arm while the other rubbed at the blood smeared across his face.

The Mad Dog had finally been muzzled.

The referee raised Mercer’s hand, declaring him the winner by submission. His corner flooded into the cage, patting him on the back, congratulating him. But Mercer barely acknowledged them.

His eyes were already on the exit, already looking forward.

Braddock, meanwhile, rolled onto his side, sucking in heavy breaths. A cutman knelt beside him, reaching for his arm, but Jax swatted him away. He forced himself up, staggering to his feet under his

own power.

The fight had never been his to win.

But leaving the cage on his feet?

That part was still his choice.

The crowd gave a respectful cheer as Braddock limped to the exit, but the night belonged to Cade Mercer.

At the top of the ramp, Mercer paused. Turned back.

His gaze settled on the cage, then flicked to the giant tournament bracket displayed above it.

Titan. Gone.

Braddock. Eliminated.

Only one name left in his way.

Matthew.

His lips curled into a whisper of a smirk.

“This was just the beginning.”

Then, he disappeared backstage, the shadow of a champion in the making.

Winner: Cade Mercer via Submission (5:00)

The Call No One Wanted

The Peak Media production truck buzzed with stress and tension. The monitors still displayed the shocking replay of Titan’s loss on a loop—Cade Mercer locking in the Juggernaut Clutch, Titan’s wide eyes scanning the crowd in slow motion before the inevitable tap. The image was haunting, a reminder of a night that was quickly spiraling out of control.

In the far corner of the truck, Genny Vaughn, Peak Media’s head of PR, sat hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. Her tablet balanced on her lap, her phone propped up against a console, all three screens feeding her a constant barrage of notifications.

#TitanTapped was trending.

#CadeMercerEra was climbing rapidly.

And worst of all?

#PaperChampion was gaining serious traction.

Genny’s face was set in stone, her mind already working two steps ahead. Damage control mode.

A producer, peeking over her shoulder, whistled. “Jesus. They’re roasting him.”

Genny barely blinked, already scanning the next wave of quote tweets, memes, and reaction videos flooding Social X. The most viral one? A slow-motion clip of Titan tapping, edited with a sarcastic voiceover:

"When you realize you ain’t HIM."

The comment section was a bloodbath.

"Bro got BUILT for this moment just to fold."

“Peak Media really put their whole budget into a glass jaw.”

"Not so TITANic after all."

And then, the death blow—an old Titan promo resurfacing where he mocked fighters for tapping out, proclaiming, “If you tap, you were never a real champion to begin with.”

That one was racking up retweets by the second.

“Shit,” Genny muttered under her breath.

She tapped into the Peak Media Group account, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What’s the play? Ignore it? Pivot the narrative? Turn it into a redemption arc?

Before she could decide, she was interrupted.

“Genny.”

Sebastian Greer’s voice was sharp, clipped.

“Yeah, I know. It’s bad.”

Sebastian didn’t need to ask. He knew exactly what she meant.

“How bad?”

Genny let out a slow breath, refreshing her screen. The engagement numbers on #TitanTapped were spiking again.

“It’s everywhere,” she said flatly. “It’s in the sports feeds. It’s bleeding into mainstream news. There’s already a goddamn OnTheMark segment lined up about it. And—” she hesitated, “—Victor’s tagged in half of them.”

A tense pause.

Then, the sharp vibration of Sebastian’s phone.

Victor Hayes.

Sebastian exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He already knew what was coming.

Sebastian picked up the phone, bracing himself.

"Victor," he started cautiously, trying to steady himself.

But Victor Hayes’s voice cut through the line like a storm.

“Sebastian, what the hell was that?”

The anger was clear, his words sharp and venomous.

“Titan? Tapped? In the first round? The guy we branded as the future face of the industry? What kind of circus are you running there?”

Sebastian rubbed his temple, already exhausted. “Victor, I get it. I’m as frustrated as you are, but—”

“No, you don’t get it!” Victor roared, cutting him off.

“We didn’t pump money into this tournament for surprises! Titan was supposed to sell this whole operation. We put him front and center, and now he’s a joke. A punchline! Do you know what this does to our bottom line? You’ve turned our investment into a goddamn liability! Fix it, Sebastian! Fix it now!”

Sebastian gritted his teeth, holding the phone slightly away from his ear.

“Victor, listen. Titan lost. It’s combat sports—anything can happen. There’s nothing to ‘fix.’ The match was legitimate.”

Victor’s tone dropped, icy and cutting.

“Then put him back in the finals. Find a way. You’re the executive on-site, Sebastian. Do your job and fix this disaster.”

Sebastian hesitated, knowing the next part would only make things worse.

“Victor, even if I wanted to... Titan’s gone.”

“Gone?” Victor’s incredulous tone exploded through the line. “What the hell do you mean, gone?”

“He stormed out after the fight,” Sebastian admitted, his voice heavy. “Security confirmed it—he’s already left the building. Refused to speak to anyone. He’s furious, Victor.”

Victor let out a bitter laugh.

“You let him just leave? Goddammit, Sebastian, are you even running this thing? Or is this amateur hour? We promoted this man as the future, and now we’re the ones with egg on our faces. If you don’t fix this, I will. Do you understand me?”

Sebastian’s hand balled into a fist on the desk, but he forced his voice to remain calm.

“Understood. I’ll handle it.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, the only sound in the truck was the hum of machinery and the faint cheers of the crowd outside could be heard.

Sebastian sat in silence, tension radiating off him like heat. He glanced up at the monitor where Titan’s

loss was replaying yet again.

His frustration boiled over.

Slamming his hands on the desk, Sebastian shot to his feet. His voice cut through the production truck like a knife.

“Turn this fucking replay off! I don’t want to see it again. Ever.”

The producers froze, stunned by the sudden outburst.

“If anyone shows it again,” Sebastian continued, his voice dripping with venom, “your ass is fired. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of hurried nods and murmured agreements filled the room. One of the producers scrambled to switch the monitor to another feed, fumbling with the controls in his haste. The image of Cade

Mercer’s victory disappeared, replaced by footage of the roaring crowd.

Sebastian adjusted his tie and took a deep breath, his composure slowly returning.

Muttering under his breath, he turned away from the monitors.

“Fix it,” he scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. “Fix what? Titan’s ego?”

From her seat, Genny’s phone buzzed again.

She glanced down. Her inbox was already flooded. Emails from sponsors, journalists, analysts—all wanting a statement.

Her jaw tightened.

She clicked open Social X again.

The numbers on #TitanTapped kept climbing.

Damage control mode.

“Sebastian,” she called, spinning her chair toward him.

He turned, still seething. “What?”

Genny’s tone was sharp, professional, and loaded with urgency.

“Tell me how we’re spinning this. Right now.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

Then, he forced himself to think.

They couldn’t erase this.

Couldn’t ignore it.

But they could control it.

Finally, he spoke.

“Tell them the Titan Era isn’t over,” he said coldly. “It’s just waiting to be rewritten.”

Genny nodded once, already typing.

The war for public perception had begun.

The Juggernaut’s Coronation

The fighters’ locker room was eerily quiet now, emptied of the tension and chaos that had filled it earlier in the night. The sounds of distant crowd cheers filtered faintly through the walls, but in this space, calm and precision reigned. Cade Mercer sat on the edge of a bench, his posture perfectly composed. His broad shoulders barely moved as he inhaled and exhaled in rhythm, guided by the firm, unyielding instructions of Brent Norris.

“Deep breath in… hold… now release,” Norris instructed, his voice as steady as a metronome. Cade followed the commands without hesitation, his eyes closed, his body almost unnaturally still. A sleek oxygen tank sat nearby, and though Cade didn’t need it, it was there—just another tool in the arsenal of preparation.

Across the room, Ethan Carter, his striking coach, was glued to a tablet, rewatching Matthew’s earlier fights. His sharp eyes dissected every detail of Matthew’s movements, rewinding the footage and pausing to study angles and timing. “He’s got raw power, no doubt,” Carter said, his tone measured as he glanced up at Cade. “But he swings wild when he gets emotional. Leave an opening, bait him in, and counter. He’s not disciplined enough to handle you in a technical exchange.”

Cade’s eyes opened slowly, his stoic expression unchanging. He gave a small nod, absorbing the information like a machine processing data.

On the other side of the room, Clayton Reed paced back and forth like a caged lion, his energy electric. The charismatic manager’s voice echoed confidently through the space. “This is what we trained for, Cade. You’ve already proven you’re the best in this tournament—Titan’s fall proved that. Tonight’s just the coronation, kid. Everyone out there is waiting to see you ascend.”

Cade glanced at him but didn’t speak. His focus was singular, and he didn’t need the theatrics. Yet, Reed’s words weren’t without merit. Cade’s team had spent months crafting him into a near-perfect competitor. From his conditioning to his striking, from his nutrition to his mental game—everything was calculated, fine-tuned, and polished.

Carter set the tablet down and leaned forward, addressing Cade directly. “Stay calm in the pocket. Don’t let him drag you into a brawl. Force him to miss, then punish him for it. He won’t last long once you start picking him apart.”

Norris chimed in, his deep, commanding tone cutting through the room. “You’ve got this. Stick to the game plan. Everything else is noise.”

Cade stood, towering over his team but moving with an effortless grace. He adjusted his gloves and looked at the three men who had guided him to this moment. His voice was calm, devoid of arrogance or nerves. “The finals will be mine. This is just another day.”

The room fell into a focused silence, a quiet testament to the well-oiled machine that Cade Mercer’s team had created. As Cade grabbed a towel and slung it over his shoulder, his demeanor remained unshaken. This wasn’t just a fight for him—it was a step in a carefully plotted journey. And for Cade Mercer, losing wasn’t part of the plan.

Lone Preparation

The backstage area was a far cry from the polished locker room that was reserved for the fighters. Matthew though opted for something different. An area in the back cluttered with rows of production crates, it offered little comfort—but Matthew didn’t seem to mind. He sat alone on a steel chair, his back against the cold concrete wall. A roll of white tape rested on his knee as he meticulously wrapped his own hands, his calloused fingers moving with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

A faint hum came from his phone, balanced precariously on a crate in front of him. The cracked screen displayed grainy footage of a sparring session back home in Cork. The audio was muffled, but the unmistakable voice of Wiliam Waters echoed through the headphones draped around his neck, shouting words of encouragement in a thick Irish brogue.

Matthew smirked to himself, muttering as he secured the tape around his knuckles. “Aye, they think they’re all flash and polish, don’t they? We’ll see how far that gets ’em when they’re face-down on the mat.”

He paused to flex his fingers, testing the wrap, then adjusted it with a quick tug. His breathing was steady, his eyes sharp with the kind of focused determination that couldn’t be faked. This wasn’t just a fight for Matthew—it was a proving ground, a chance to show that grit and raw will could topple any finely-tuned machine.

Across the room, a small, cracked mirror leaned against one of the crates. Matthew stepped in front of it, his reflection distorted but clear enough for him to see the fire in his own eyes. He punched his palm with a loud smack, the sound echoing in the empty space. His lips curled into a crooked grin as he spoke to his reflection, his voice low and firm.

“Let’s finish this, then. Pint’s waitin’.”

With that, he turned away, his boots echoing on the concrete floor as he headed toward the cage. Alone, unpolished, and unapologetic—Matthew was ready for war.

Collateral Damage

The production was filled with activity as crew members scurried to prepare for the finals. Logan stood near a monitor, his arms crossed as he watched the final checks unfold. His face betrayed a mix of nerves and exhaustion, but there was a flicker of hope as he observed the energy in the building. The crowd’s cheers could be faintly heard in the distance, their anticipation building for the last fight of the night.

But the moment was interrupted as Sebastian strode into view, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floor. His expression was icy, and unfriendly. Without hesitation, he grabbed Logan by the arm and pulled him aside, away from the chaos of the crew.

“Logan,” Sebastian started, his voice low but cutting, “we need to talk. Now.”

Logan frowned, pulling his arm free. “What’s this about, Sebastian? I’m in the middle of making sure this show finishes strong.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about the show, Logan. It’s about Titan. His loss tonight has triggered a financial penalty. Peak Media Group was banking on him being in the finals to drive revenue, and now that’s off the table.”

Logan’s shoulders stiffened. “Financial penalty? That’s ridiculous. I never promised Titan would make it to the finals.”

Sebastian’s tone turned sharper, his words like daggers. “You didn’t have to promise, Logan. You led us to believe there was no way he wouldn’t be. You sold us on Titan as a guaranteed draw. And now? Now we’re left scrambling because you couldn’t deliver.”

Logan’s frustration boiled over, his voice rising slightly. “All I said was that Titan was a main draw everywhere else and would be here too! I didn’t rig anything, and you damn well know it. This is on Titan. He lost because he was too cocky, not because of me.”

Sebastian’s face remained stoic, but the tension was noticeable. He crossed his arms, his tone dropping to a near whisper, dripping with disdain. “Nonetheless.”

Logan blinked, caught off guard by the dismissal. “That’s it? ‘Nonetheless’? You’re going to stand here and blame me for something I had no control over?”

Sebastian turned on his heel, already walking away. “I’ve said what I needed to say.”

Logan stepped forward, his voice tinged with desperation. “Where are you going, Sebastian?”

Sebastian paused, his back still to Logan. His voice was cold, his words calculated. “Back to the office. I have Victor fuming that you lied to us.”

Logan exhaled sharply, his frustration mounting. “You can’t leave yet. The show isn’t over.”

Sebastian finally turned, his gaze piercing. He allowed the silence to linger for a moment before delivering the final blow. “The show may not be over, Mr. Drake, but your career as a promoter is surely

over. Have a nice night.”

Sebastian walked off without waiting for a response, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the shadows of the production area. Logan stood rooted to the spot, his jaw tight and his hands clenched into fists. The weight of Sebastian’s words hung heavy in the air, threatening to crush what little hope Logan had left.

As the noise of the crowd swelled in the background, Logan sighed deeply, his gaze fixed on the ground. The night wasn’t over, but it was clear the storm brewing behind the scenes was only just beginning.

Matthew vs. Mercer

The camera transitions to a wide shot of the arena, where the towering tournament bracket looms above the cage. Bold letters declare the final matchup: Matthew vs. Cade Mercer. The updated bracket commands the audience’s attention, while the crowd begins to stir, their excitement higher than any other point in the night.

The commentators’ voices cut through the rising tension, their tones steady yet brimming with anticipation: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is what it all comes down to. On one side, Cade Mercer—the embodiment of polished precision and professional dominance. On the other, Matthew—the scrappy underdog, defined by grit, heart, and relentless determination. Two fighters, two distinct journeys, and one title on the line.”

The camera pans slowly to the cage, its steel walls catching the sharp arena lights, casting long shadows across the bloodstained mat. Faint smears of dried blood from the earlier war between Happy Jack and Jax Braddock remain, etching a brutal testament to the night’s events. The cage, no longer pristine, seems to pulsate with the violence it has absorbed, standing as both battleground and tomb for shattered dreams.

The crowd’s energy builds like a low rumble of thunder rolling through the arena. The chants begin softly at first, scattered pockets of fans chanting, “Fi-nals! Fi-nals!” before swelling into a deafening roar. The arena vibrates with anticipation, the fans’ voices uniting in a singular, primal demand for more.

The camera lingers on the empty cage, its silence deafening amidst the growing crowd noise. The brutal history of the night is etched into its surface, an unspoken promise of the chaos yet to come.

The commentators, their voices rising in unison with the crowd, deliver their closing thoughts:

 “Will Matthew’s relentless determination and raw grit topple Cade Mercer’s calculated, methodical dominance? Or will Cade prove once again why he’s the most dangerous man in MMA? One thing is certain: this final will be unforgettable.”

The chants echo through the arena. The cage looms ominously in the center, waiting to swallow its next chapter of violence. The lights shift, illuminating the structure in an almost ethereal glow, as the camera fades out on the haunting image of bloodstains and steel.