Chapter 6

The stage has been set, but the cost of ambition is becoming clear. Logan Drake’s dream of reshaping the combat sports world through Strike Force Legends has evolved from a reckless gamble into a high-stakes power struggle. What started as a one-night tournament to answer the eternal question—wrestlers vs. fighters—has become something far more dangerous. The competitors are in place: Colton Hayes is seeking redemption, Glenn Sterling is fighting against time itself, and Titan has entered the fray, bringing chaos in his wake. But Logan is learning that signing the biggest names doesn’t guarantee control. Peak Media Group, led by the ruthless Victor Blackwell, has sunk its claws into the event, turning what was meant to be Logan’s moment into another extension of their empire. And now, on the night of the tournament, allies are walking away, tensions are at a boiling point, and the weight of expectation threatens to crush everything. The fights are about to begin, but the real battle has already started.

A Stage Set for Legends

Logan Drake’s cab crawled to a stop on the avenue leading to the Nassau Coliseum, its tires splashing through shallow puddles that were created from a light drizzle. The rhythmic wipers of the taxi had become a metronome of his thoughts, ticking away the seconds before everything changed.

Outside, the scene before him pulsed with a chaotic, electric energy.

Towering semi-trucks lined the loading docks, their metallic sheen catching the last streaks of muted autumn sunlight. The Peak Media Group logo stretched across their sides—a name that had bulldozed its way into the industry, forcing its presence upon the fight world like an immovable giant.

Crew members in black and gold jackets moved with mechanical precision, their movements practiced and efficient. Logan watched as they unloaded lighting rigs, sound equipment, and crates filled with unmarked props—an army of workers constructing the battlefield.

The air smelled of exhaust fumes, freshly brewed coffee, and the damp earthiness of rain-soaked leaves, their rich, golden scent carried on the crisp autumn breeze.

Then he saw it.

The marquee.

"Peak Media Group Presents: Strike Force Legends. Where Legacies Collide. One Night. One Winner."

The LED lights burned like a declaration of war.

Then came the follow-up message, hammering the point home:

"Tickets Sold Out!"

A sudden jolt shot through him, his pulse drumming a rapid, frantic rhythm.

This wasn’t just another event. It was a reckoning.

The cab driver twisted around in his seat, watching Logan through the rearview mirror. His voice was rough, coated in the rasp of too many cigarettes and too many late-night fares.

"First time in the big city, huh?"

Logan blinked, realizing he hadn’t moved. His grip tightened around the handle of his battered leather briefcase—scuffed edges, a worn buckle, a relic of meetings, contracts, and sleepless nights.

"Something like that," he murmured, forcing a chuckle.

The driver smirked knowingly as Logan shoved a few crumpled bills into his hand and stepped out into the cold.

The wind bit at his cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but he barely noticed. The energy around him was alive.

Cables snaked along the pavement like veins feeding into the beating heart of the event. Tech crews shouted over the steady hum of generators, and from within the arena, the distorted echoes of audio tests drifted through the air.

And then—the crowd.

They wrapped around the block, braving the cold, clutching handmade signs like battle banners:

"Titan for the Win!" "Wrestlers Rule!" "Colton Hayes = WASHED!"

Their excitement was infectious, a wave of raw energy that Logan felt in his bones.

This was why they did it.

Not just for the contracts. Not just for the spectacle. But for them—the ones who believed in the mythology of fighters, the poetry of combat, the unspoken promise that anything could happen.

He adjusted his tie—a nervous tick he’d never quite shaken—and stepped forward.

A massive digital display loomed near the entrance, cycling through highlight reels of the night’s competitors.

Titan—an unmovable powerhouse, throwing opponents like ragdolls. Colton Hayes—his submission holds surgical, precise, devastating. Happy Jack—grinning like a specter, his eerie laughter playing over a slow-motion chair shot that cracked against some poor bastard’s skull.

Each segment ended with the same tagline.

"One Night. One Winner."

Logan watched his breath curl in the air before disappearing.

Everything had led to this. Every sleepless night. Every sacrifice. Every battle behind closed doors, fighting tooth and nail to make this moment real.

The staff entrance loomed ahead, a simple metal door standing in contrast to the spectacle outside. As he approached, he caught glimpses of the world behind the curtain.

Reporters clustered near the VIP check-in, cameras ready to capture every moment.Vendors hawked Strike Force Legends shirts, posters, foam fingers.The scent of hot pretzels and roasted peanuts cut through the chill, mingling with the sharp clang of scaffolding and the rumble of shifting heavy equipment.

Everything around him buzzed with the weight of something about to begin.

Logan hesitated at the threshold. Just for a second.

Turning his gaze back to the marquee, he let the moment settle.

This is it.

Not just another show. A war for legitimacy. A moment that would make—or break—everything.

The staff entrance door clicked open with a metallic snap.

Logan stepped inside.

And the night swallowed him whole.

The Wolf in the Fold

Inside the Nassau Coliseum, the energy was building—not a fever pitch yet, but a slow, steady hum of anticipation. The arena was still in its skeletal state, scaffolding towering like unfinished battle stations, crew members moving with silent efficiency, their murmured discussions punctuated by the occasional burst of microphone feedback. Spotlights flared, pyrotechnics fired in controlled tests, and cables snaked across the floor like veins feeding life into the production.  

Logan Drake took it all in, heart pounding—not with nerves, but with excitement.  

This was it. The machine was coming together. His machine.  

Then, across the arena floor, he saw him.  

Sebastian Greer.  

Even from a distance, Logan recognized the posture—impeccable, rigid, exuding effortless authority. The razor-sharp cut of his dark-black and gray suit was a stark contrast to the chaos around him, and the clipboard in his hands wasn’t just an accessory—it was a ledger of control. He stood like a man observing from a great height, detached, calculating.  

Logan exhaled, quickening his steps as he maneuvered through the tangle of cables and hurried production crew.  

"Sebastian!"  

Sebastian turned, but there was no flicker of warmth. No acknowledgment of shared success. Just that same cool, unreadable expression.  

Logan extended a hand, his excitement carrying through his grin. "Didn’t expect to see you here so early! This is incredible, right?"  

Sebastian’s handshake was perfunctory, barely a brush of fingers. "Mr. Drake."  

The formality landed like a slap.  

Logan forced himself to keep smiling. "So, when’s Victor getting in?"  

Sebastian didn’t even hesitate. "Mr. Blackwell has more pressing needs to attend to. He sent me as his proxy."  

Logan tried to mask his disappointment, but the realization stung. He had envisioned this moment differently—standing side by side with Victor Blackwell, working hand in hand with the man who had made this tournament possible. Instead, he was getting… a representative. A gatekeeper.  

Still, he refused to let it shake him. "Well, I appreciate you being here. This is the biggest night of my career, and I know Peak Media has put a lot into it."  

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. "Peak Media expects a return on its investments. Let’s hope this proves to be one."

The excitement in Logan’s chest cooled.  

Sebastian flipped a page on his clipboard. "Have the entrance cues been finalized?"  

Logan opened his mouth, then hesitated.

Sebastian caught it instantly. "And the pyrotechnic timings? Are they aligned with the camera team’s positioning?"  

Logan’s stomach tightened.

He knew these things were being handled. Someone was handling them.

But he hadn’t checked personally.

The clipboard in Sebastian’s hands suddenly felt like a loaded weapon.

Logan opened his mouth, scrambling for the right words.

"Uh, I—those details are… I thought the team was—"

"You thought?"

Sebastian didn’t raise his voice, but the way he said it—clipped, deliberate—sent a chill up Logan’s spine.

"This is your tournament, Mr. Drake."

Sebastian took a slow step closer.

His voice dropped just enough that Logan had to focus to catch every word.

"These are the details that define success or failure. You should know every answer by heart."

The weight of the words settled deep.

Logan swallowed hard.

"I’ll… I’ll double-check everything."

He tried to laugh, to ease the tension.

"Just pre-show jitters, I guess."

Sebastian didn’t smile.

Didn’t acknowledge the joke.

"Good."

Sebastian nodded, already turning to discuss lighting angles with a production manager. His parting words were crisp, professional, and void of any real concern.  

"We wouldn’t want any oversights to tarnish the brand."  

And just like that, he was gone.  

Logan stood there for a long moment, gripping the roster list. 

The excitement that had carried him through this entire process—the sheer joy of seeing his dream materialize—had been replaced with something colder.  

Sebastian Greer wasn’t here to celebrate. He was here to monitor. To manage. To remind Logan exactly where he stood in the pecking order.  

Strike Force Legends felt less like his idea and more like Peak Media’s.  

Logan took a slow breath, squared his shoulders, and set his jaw.  

This was his night. His tournament.  

And no corporate suit was going to make him feel otherwise.  

Even if, deep down, he knew—  

The real fight had already begun. 

Just Matthew

The check-in area carried the heavy scent of disinfectant and sweat, an artificial attempt to scrub away the tension that clung to the air.

The overhead fluorescents flickered intermittently, their hum blending with the distant murmur of voices and the occasional crackle of a walkie-talkie. The room itself had the impersonal sterility of a makeshift battlefield command center, with stacks of forms, blinking computer screens, and staffers moving like ants in an overrun colony.

Matthew stood off to the side.

Arms loose at his sides. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder. 

He watched, unimpressed, as staffers shuffled papers, issued wristbands, and directed fighters and wrestlers with robotic efficiency.

To him, it all felt like pointless ceremony.

Everything here was temporary— The paperwork. The protocols. The people running the show.

But the fight? That was real.

And that was all that mattered.

The line inched forward.

A nearby conversation caught his ear—A few feet away, a man was talking to security, his voice just loud enough to carry over the low murmur of the room.

"I don’t care that there is a line," the guy scoffed, crossing his arms. "You really think I need to be ‘cleared’ like some rookie? Come on—look at me."

Matthew’s jaw twitched slightly.

He didn’t need to turn his head to get a read on the guy.

The tone said everything.

Entitlement. Arrogance. A voice that expected doors to open before he even had to knock.

The kind of guy who thought he was already better than the rest of them.

Matthew exhaled slowly, unimpressed.

Didn’t matter how confident a man sounded when he was puffing his chest in a lobby.

The truth always came out when the cage door locked.

The line inched forward.

And Matthew?

He waited. Still. Silent.

Matthew let out a heavy breath through his nose, shifting his stance slightly. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t tap his fingers. Didn’t shuffle in place like the others. He simply waited.

And then—

"Next!"

The voice snapped him from his thoughts.

The staffer at the check-in table barely looked up as he called for the next in line, already poised to scribble down a name without a second thought.

Matthew took his time.

His boots struck the floor solidly with each step, his presence carrying weight in a way that had nothing to do with his size.

He stopped at the table, standing motionless as the staffer—young, overworked, and already done with the day—spoke without meeting his eyes.

"Wrestler’s name?"

Matthew’s head tilted just slightly, a ghost of a smirk flickering at the corner of his lips.

"Do I look like a feckin’ wrestler to you?"

The staffer hesitated.

Just for a second.

The Irish lilt in Matthew’s voice cut sharp, slicing through the monotony like a flick of a switchblade.

The young man sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, fighter’s first and last name?"

"Matthew."

The pen scratched against the paper. Then stopped.

The man’s brows knit together in mild confusion as he glanced up again.

"And last name?"

Matthew’s smirk widened—just barely.

"It’s just Matthew."

The man stared.

Once. Twice.

"Just Matthew?"

Matthew let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering, his expression void of amusement.

"That’s what I said, didn’t I?"

His voice was low. Calm.

The kind of calm that made people second-guess whether or not they wanted to press the issue.

The man sharply exhaled, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

"Look, man—" he started, voice flattening with impatience.

"I don’t care about the whole ‘one name’ thing. Just give me what I need so we can move this along." Matthew didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in just enough for the staffer to feel the shift in weight.

Not threatening. Not aggressive. Just impossible to ignore.

"I told ya already, lad."

His voice was quieter now.

"It’s just Matthew. Write it down and move on, aye?"

A slow, tense beat passed between them.

The man clicked his pen twice against the clipboard, jaw tightening.

Then, with a sharp, exaggerated scribble, he muttered,

"Fine. First name ‘Just… last name Matthew.’ Happy now?"

Matthew straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the entire interaction.

"Ecstatic."

The man waved him through with a halfhearted gesture, already turning to the next name on the list.

Matthew didn’t spare him another glance.

Instead, he turned, striding deeper into the backstage corridors, his boots thudding against the tile

with quiet certainty.

As he walked away, he caught the muttered frustration from behind him.

"These guys are impossible."

Matthew paused mid-step.

Tilted his head slightly, considering turning back.

Then, after a moment, he let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"They’ll learn soon enough," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Because soon—

No one would be asking for his last name.

They’d know who he was without needing to ask.

The Weight of Expectations 

Logan adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time, fingers fumbling with the fabric as if he could strangle the nerves right out of his body.

The encounter with Sebastian Greer still clung to him like a bad omen, curling around his thoughts no matter how much he tried to shake it off.

The hallways of the Nassau Coliseum thrived with purpose, each step echoing the anticipation of a night that would leave its mark.

Crew members darted past with headsets clamped over their ears, shouting rapid-fire updates into unseen microphones. Production assistants carried clipboards stacked with last-minute adjustments, dodging the thick coils of cables sprawled across the concrete floors.

The overhead PA system crackled, an impersonal voice rattling off final checks—

Camera placements.

Lighting cues.

Sound tests.

Logan let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

He was supposed to be in control. He was supposed to feel confident. But Greer’s voice still echoed in his head.

"You should know every answer by heart."

The words had cut deep, carving out a pit in his stomach that hadn’t stopped growing.

He muttered under his breath, almost without thinking.

"Really wish Grizz was here."

The name echoed, its presence felt even in its absence.

Grizz—the mentor who had steadied him when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

The man who had taught him not just the business, but the soul of it. The one who always knew how to steer the ship, even in the worst storms.

But Grizz wasn’t here.

He had walked away, leaving Logan to shoulder this night alone.

Logan inhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside.

"This is my show. I’ve got this."

He turned a corner, his pace steadying as he reached the locker room door.

One deep breath.

Then he pushed inside.

The scent of sweat and liniment hit him first—sharp, medicinal, unmistakably real.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the room.

Colton Hayes sat on the bench, head slightly bowed, fingers working methodically as he wrapped his knuckles in crisp white tape.

Each movement was precise, practiced—a quiet ritual before war.

Logan felt his shoulders ease for the first time in what felt like hours.

Finally, a friendly face.

"Colton," he greeted, stepping forward with a smile.

"Good to see you. You ready for tonight?"

Colton looked up, his eyes sharp and unreadable, meeting Logan’s for only a second before dropping back to the tape.

"I need to focus," Colton said, voice low, steady.

"Tonight’s big for me."

It wasn’t unkind, but there was a finality to it.

No room for small talk. No time for anything but the fight ahead.

Logan hesitated.

For a moment, he considered pushing through, trying to bridge the gap.

But something in Colton’s demeanor—something quiet, coiled tight—told him it wasn’t the time.

He nodded instead, his smile dimming at the edges.

"I understand. Good luck out there."

Colton didn’t reply.

His hands kept moving, pulling the tape taut, binding himself to whatever storm awaited him in the ring.

Logan lingered only a second longer, then turned and stepped back into the hallway, the

heavy door clicking shut behind him.

And just like that—

The noise of the arena roared back to life, swallowing the silence whole.

The hum of electricity in the air. The distant chant of fans already filling their seats. The metallic clang of scaffolding being adjusted.

And beneath it all—

The weight of expectation pressing down, heavier than ever.

No Grizz. No Colton.

Just him.

Logan squared his shoulders, shaking off the phantom grip of doubt creeping into his

chest.

There were still hours to go before showtime, but time was already running at full speed, dragging him with it whether he was ready or not.

This was his dream.

And tonight—

It became reality.

Polished and Poisoned

Julian St. James moved forward with the effortless grace of a man accustomed to exclusivity—a man who had never known a locked door or a denied request. Yet here he was, just moments removed from being told to wait his turn like some commoner. The irritation simmered beneath his poised exterior, barely visible save for the slight clench of his jaw.  

His navy-blue suit fit flawlessly, every inch of it tailored to complement his aristocratic posture. Gold cufflinks gleamed under the sterile overhead lighting, their shine the only thing in the drab setting that met his standards. Julian moved like the world owed him space, his expression one of thinly veiled detachment, as though merely existing in this environment was beneath him.  

At the check-in table, a young male staffer, barely in his twenties, sat hunched behind a folding desk, the glow of the laptop screen reflecting off his weary face. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he saw Julian approaching again, his shoulders stiffening slightly.  

The kid had already suffered through one encounter with the St. James heir earlier that day, where Julian had mocked the very idea of waiting in line, belittled him over protocol, and made it abundantly clear that this was an inconvenience, not a necessity.  

Not again.  

The staffer straightened in his seat, mentally bracing himself.  

"Next."  

Julian stepped forward, but it was Mr. Price who moved first, gliding into place a half-step behind his employer—**a shadow clad in precision and purpose**. His posture was crisp, movements measured, his expression as unreadable as ever.  

The staffer cleared his throat. "Fighter’s name?"  

Julian let out a sharp scoff, the word offending him on a cellular level.  

"Do I look like a barbarian to you?" he asked, the smirk playing at his lips meant for an audience—as if he expected the onlookers around him to share in his amusement.  

But the staffer didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. Instead, he tilted his head and studied Julian for a beat, his gaze running from the meticulously pressed lapels of his suit to the pristine gold of his cufflinks. Then, with the smallest shrug, he replied—  

"No, no you don’t. You actually look like the farthest thing from a fighter."  

The words hung there, cutting sharper than intended, and for the first time, Julian blinked.  

The staffer swallowed, sitting up straighter, praying this exchange wouldn’t turn into another ordeal.  

Julian didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead, he slid his ID across the table in a slow, dismissive gesture, forcing the young man to pick it up and read the name himself.  

The staffer held back a sigh, his fingers curling around the card before glancing at the screen.  

"Mr. St. James." The voice was neutral, professional—forced to be. "You’re all set. Your credentials will get you backstage access, and your locker room assignment is at the end of the hall to the left."  

Julian barely acknowledged him. He turned toward Mr. Price, lifting his chin in mock triumph.  

"See? This is how things should be handled."  

"Of course, sir," Mr. Price replied smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back, his tone

betraying nothing.  

Julian adjusted his cuffs, basking in his own sense of victory, ready to pivot away from the table and leave this miserable interaction behind him.  

And then—he froze.  

A figure stood directly in his path, blocking his way.  

Not just any figure.  

A twisted, grinning monstrosity of a man.  

A Smile Too Wide

Julian’s breath caught for only half a second, but that was all it took.  

Happy Jack stood there, his gaunt frame draped in chaos, a grin carved too wide across his painted face. His wild green hair jutted in unruly tufts, framing eyes that gleamed with a mix of mischief and malice. The tatters of his ring gear clung to his wiry body, the fabric stained, torn, and long past repair, a stark contrast to Julian’s immaculate presence. In one hand, he idly twirled a club, while the other clutched a glossy red balloon, its surface reflecting the distorted, nightmarish clown who held it.

His face paint was cracked and uneven, not from design, but from wear—as if it had been left to decay on his skin, slowly rotting in place. The black paint around his eyes bled unevenly, only making the whites of his eyes look brighter, hungrier.  

And then, there was the silence.  

Jack didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.  

He just stood there.  

Grinning.  

Julian felt something visceral twist inside him, a feeling he hadn’t encountered before—not fear, no, never fear, but something… unsettling.  

Jack was chaos in human form. Unpredictable. Filthy. Unrefined. The very antithesis of Julian St. James.  

The moment stretched long enough for the staffer to notice the change in Julian’s posture—the slightest tension in his shoulders, the near-imperceptible way his fingers curled at

his sides.  

Jack finally moved.  

Just a small, slow wiggle of his fingers, a mocking little wave—but it felt deliberate, pointed.  

Then, at last, he spoke.  

"You look like you belong on a cologne commercial…" Jack’s voice was sing-song, playful, yet laced with something dark. His head tilted further, the cracks in his face paint pulling apart with the motion.  

Then, after a beat—  

"Or a coffin lid."  

Julian’s stomach twisted.  

It wasn’t the words—it was the way Jack breathed them out, the way he seemed to relish the interaction, like a child pulling the wings off a fly just to see how long it could last.  

Julian curled his lip, stepping half an inch backward before catching himself. No. He would not show weakness.  

His voice remained cool, controlled, dipped in aristocratic disdain.  

"You smell like you crawled out of a sewer."  

Jack inhaled theatrically, closing his eyes, his chest rising dramatically as if absorbing the insult like perfume.  

"Mmm… that’s just the memories sticking to me."  

Julian’s fingers twitched, itching to adjust his jacket, as if that alone could cleanse the moment.  

Enough.  

"Come, Mr. Price." His voice was clipped, final. "We have better company to keep."  

Mr. Price, ever composed, didn’t react to any of it. He simply nodded and stepped into stride beside Julian, unmoved by the entire exchange.  

Jack watched them go, his eyes gleaming, his grin somehow stretching even wider.  

Then, just as Julian was nearly out of earshot—  

"See you soon, pretty boy."  

Julian’s spine stiffened, his jaw locking for only a second—but he didn’t turn around.  

He simply kept walking.  

Forcing himself to act as if Happy Jack had never existed.  

Jack, meanwhile, let out a giggling exhale, his fingers twitching in that same little wave.  

Oh, this was going to be fun.  

A Golden Arrival 

The throaty growl of an engine echoed through the concrete parking garage, reverberating against the steel beams and flickering fluorescent fixtures above. It wasn’t rushed, nor was it impatient—it was deliberate, stretching out its presence before the vehicle even came into view.

And then it emerged.

An old limousine, straight out of the 1980s, rolled forward with an almost regal crawl. Its black exterior gleamed under the harsh artificial light, the chrome trim polished to a mirror’s shine, catching reflections of the dull gray walls as it passed. Every inch of it screamed excess—not the sleek, modern kind, but the ostentatious, throwback luxury of a man who didn’t just demand attention—he expected it.

The limo didn’t glide into one of the designated VIP spots like the others. No, that would be too simple. Too ordinary.

Instead, it screeched to a dramatic halt—directly in the middle of the lane, blocking the entrance to the VIP section entirely. The parking garage, already buzzing with controlled chaos, seemed to hesitate around it, like a momentary shift in gravity.

The driver’s door clicked open. A uniformed chauffeur stepped out, moving with practiced efficiency as he adjusted his cap and strode to the rear. His steps were crisp, purposeful—until he reached for the handle, where he paused. With a gloved hand, he took a breath, then swung the door open with an exaggerated flourish, as if revealing a stage performer to a captive audience.

And then, the silence shattered.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The voice erupted from the limo, cutting through the garage’s ambient noise like a firework at midnight.

"The Golden Boy has arrived!"

Glenn Sterling stepped out like royalty descending from his carriage.

Everything about him gleamed—the impeccably tailored suit that clung to his athletic frame, the golden tie that shone under the flickering fluorescents, the custom cufflinks that caught the light with every slight movement. Even his smile—a calculated, dazzling thing—seemed to radiate an effortless brilliance.

But he wasn’t alone.

Following behind him, with the grace of a queen stepping onto her balcony, was Vivian Sterling. She was every bit his equal in presence—if not his superior. Draped in a shimmering gold dress that hugged her frame with effortless elegance, she exuded a quiet, commanding power. Her platinum blonde bob framed sharp, knowing eyes, and every movement she made was deliberate, calculated. Gold bangles adorned her wrists, catching the light with every subtle shift, a silent testament to her refined taste. There was no need for theatrics—her mere presence was enough to demand attention.

She barely acknowledged the growing stir in the garage, her eyes scanning their surroundings with a measured air of amusement. She had been in enough arenas, enough ballrooms, enough boardrooms to know—every room belonged to her the second she stepped inside.

Glenn took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly, as if savoring the moment. Then, with a sudden flourish, he threw his arms wide.

"Do you smell that?" he bellowed, his voice rich with theatrical bravado. "That’s the scent of greatness—my greatness! Smells like it’s a great day to be Golden!"

Vivian let out a soft, knowing chuckle, swirling her wine delicately as if she’d heard the line a thousand times before—because she had.

The garage remained in stunned silence for half a beat.

Then came the inevitable reaction—an irritated parking attendant jogging over, already looking as though he regretted his entire career choice.

“Sir—excuse me, sir, you can’t park there,” the attendant said, out of breath, gesturing toward the limo blocking the lane. His voice carried that blend of exasperation and forced professionalism that only people in customer service truly understood.

Glenn turned toward him slowly.

Too slowly.

Like a man descending from some untouchable height to acknowledge a peasant groveling at his feet. His golden tie caught between his fingers, he adjusted it with surgical precision before finally locking eyes with the attendant.

"Can’t?" he repeated, the word dripping with incredulity, like it was an offense just to

suggest such a thing.

The attendant hesitated under Glenn’s scrutiny but pressed on. “Yes, sir, this is a fire lane, and if someone else—”

“Fire lane?” Glenn interrupted, throwing his hands up, his voice carrying enough volume to fill an arena. “Oh, don’t worry about that. The only fire here is the one I’ll be igniting in that cage tonight!”

He let out a full-bodied laugh, a booming sound that filled the garage, bouncing off the concrete walls like a victory bell.

The attendant visibly deflated. He had the look of a man rapidly realizing that no logic, no rules, and no amount of reasoning was going to change the outcome of this encounter.

Still, he made one last, valiant attempt.

“Sir,” he sighed, rubbing his temple, “can you at least move it to the side? You’re blocking—”

Vivian cut him off before Glenn could.

“Darling,” she cooed, stepping forward with the precision of a woman who had never been rushed a day in her life. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

The attendant swallowed.

Vivian smiled, a soft, almost sympathetic thing. She reached into her clutch, pulled out a crisp $100 bill, and tucked it into the attendant’s breast pocket with a featherlight touch.

"Now, be a dear and go get us two glasses of champagne," she said, her tone more

command than request. "It’s a special night, after all."

The attendant blinked, caught between indignation and self-preservation. He opened his mouth as if to argue—but then just sighed. A defeated, exhausted sigh. Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Glenn beamed. "That’s why I married you, Viv."

Vivian smirked, sipping her wine. "I know."

Glenn pivoted, clapping a hand onto the chauffeur’s shoulder. “Don’t move it an inch,” he instructed, nodding toward the limo. “It’s perfectly fine where it is—like me, it’s exactly where it belongs.”

With that, he strode toward the elevator, the echo of his expensive leather shoes punctuating each step. Vivian followed, still sipping her wine with the serene confidence of a woman who knew she was untouchable.

Glenn’s voice carried behind them, full of self-assurance, full of spectacle.

"Tonight, they’ll all remember why the Golden Boy is forever!"

The parking attendant exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he turned away.

The garage settled into a momentary quiet again.

But then—another sound.

Distant, at first.

A low, deep, rumbling growl.

Another engine.

Heavier. Meaner.

Not smooth and polished like the limousine. No, this was different.

This was Titan arriving.

And suddenly, the golden shimmer Glenn had left behind felt like nothing more than a fleeting flicker before the storm.

The Titan Meets the Golden Obstacle 

The low, rolling growl of an engine seeped through the dimly lit parking garage like a storm warning, its deep hum vibrating against the concrete walls. The sound wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried. It was patient—an apex predator stalking into its domain.

From the shadows, a sleek black SUV emerged.

Its polished exterior gleamed under the flickering fluorescence, reflecting the harsh, industrial glow. The windows, tinted to obsidian, gave no glimpse into the force brewing inside. It moved with purpose, gliding toward the VIP entrance of the Nassau Coliseum—until it came to an abrupt stop.

Blocked.

Titan’s fingers flexed against the leather of the steering wheel, his grip tightening as his gaze landed on the offending vehicle.

A limousine.

Not just any limousine—an old, ostentatious behemoth of a car, stretched absurdly long across the entrance like a gilded roadblock. A relic from another era, flaunting its excess with the kind of arrogance that demanded attention. Titan’s SUV wasn’t exactly subtle either, but at least he knew when to move.

Titan’s eyes narrowed.

His patience did not.

The horn blared, shattering the low drone of the garage.

Once.

Twice.

Then again, each blast echoing off the walls like the tolling of a war drum.

Still, the limousine remained unmoved, its polished chrome sneering at him beneath the lights.

Titan exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching. You’ve got to be kidding me. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the force rattling through the vehicle.

“Unbelievable.”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he threw the SUV into park and shoved the door open.

The impact sent a dull, resonant boom through the structure as his massive frame unfolded from the driver’s seat. Leather creaked against his broad shoulders as he rolled them back, shaking off the lingering tension. His boots hit the pavement with a purposeful clap, the sound slicing through the garage’s low hum of distant movement.

His glare flicked over the limousine—analyzing, assessing.

“Golden Boy…” Titan muttered under his breath. “More like a golden pain in my ass.”

A rustle of nervous movement caught his attention.

To the side, a same attendant from dealing with Glenn Sterling hovered hesitantly near a pillar, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a shield. His eyes darted between Titan and the limo, as if weighing whether or not he was about to witness a vehicular homicide.

Titan turned his head slightly, leveling the kid with a look.

The staffer cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly before finally speaking. “Uh… Mr. Titan, sir,” he started, voice unsure, “I—I tried to tell him he couldn’t park here, but, uh…” He trailed off, eyes flicking back to the limo as if it had physically restrained him from enforcing the rules.

Titan arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Where is he?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low rumble, the kind that made people reconsider their life choices.

The staffer swallowed, then jabbed a finger toward the elevator. “He, um… he went inside a few minutes ago.”

Titan’s lips pressed into a thin, humorless line. Of course he did.

The staffer shifted again, his nervous energy contagious. “I could, uh, try to get someone to move it?”

Titan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “And maybe call a rocket scientist while you’re at it.”

The sarcasm cut through the air like a knife, and the staffer visibly shrank, nodding quickly before practically scurrying away.

Titan ignored him.

Instead, he turned his attention to the limousine itself, gaze locking onto the driver’s seat window.  

The chauffeur was still inside—a middle-aged man in a prim uniform, his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white.  

Titan tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he took a slow, deliberate step toward the limo. The movement was barely noticeable, barely a threat—  

But it was enough.  

The driver immediately ducked down, sinking into his seat as if he could disappear entirely.  Practically hearing Glenn Sterling’s final instructions being replayed in his head on repeat, “don’t move it an inch.”

Titan stopped.  

His lips quirked up into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, not quite amusement—but something close.  

He moved to the backseat of his SUV, yanking the door open and grabbing his gym bag. He slung it over his shoulder with an easy motion, adjusting the strap before turning toward the elevator.

His boots echoed against the pavement, each step measured, his irritation simmering beneath the surface.

Blocking the damn entrance… Who the hell does this guy think he is?

He reached the elevator and jabbed the call button—hard. The dull ding of its arrival did nothing to temper his frustration.

As the doors slid open, Titan stepped inside the cramped space, still smelling like 80’s perfume and tanning lotion. The reflective steel walls did little to soften the intensity in his gaze as he stared straight ahead, his mind already shifting focus to the fight ahead.

But one thought refused to be shaken.

His voice, barely above a growl, lingered in the air as the doors slid shut.

"He better hope I don’t see him before the match."