Kingdom Come - Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

The SFL Exposé

Rico Vega adjusted his laptop screen, squinting against the harsh glow of his monitor in the dimly lit confines of his "office." The smell of microwaved leftovers lingered in the air, mixing with the faint mustiness of old wrestling magazines stacked haphazardly around him.

He stared at the blinking cursor, the words forming in his mind weightier than any review he'd written in the seven years since founding Tapout. This wasn't just another critique. This was likely his last.

"Contenders 3: Real Fights or Scripted Entertainment?"

The title felt provocative, dangerous even. He let it sit there for a moment, contemplating the implications of what he was about to publish. With a deep breath, he began typing.

"Before I dive into tonight's show, I need to address the elephant in the room—something that changes everything about how we view SFL and its events moving forward. During a recent investor call that somehow wasn't meant to leak (but did), Victor Blackwell made a stunning revelation: Strike Force Legends was scripted."

Rico paused, his fingers hovering over the keys as he considered the weight of this accusation. It wasn't merely industry gossip; he had the transcript, verified by three sources. This could burn every bridge I have left, he thought, before continuing with renewed determination.

"Let that sink in. The very event that put SFL on the map—the night that supposedly 'changed combat sports forever'—was, according to its own owner, predetermined entertainment rather than legitimate competition. If this is true, what does it say about everything we've seen since? What does it say about tonight's show? About Happy Jack's unhinged violence? About Colton Hayes nearly breaking Glenn Sterling's ankle after the bell? Were these genuine moments of combat intensity, or just exceptionally convincing theater?"

The clacking of his keyboard grew more intense, his frustration finding outlet through his fingertips.

"This revelation calls into question everything SFL has presented as authentic. The blood, the submissions, the supposed 'real fights'—all of it now exists under a cloud of suspicion. And frankly, that makes reviewing tonight's Contenders 3 almost pointless. How do I analyze competition that might not be competition at all?"

He took a sip of his energy drink—warm, flat, but still caffeinated—and shifted gears.

"Nevertheless, for those who still care: Contenders 3 was mediocre at best. 2.5 stars. The ending was chaotic and overbooked—with Cade Mercer randomly inserting himself into the Kingdom Come main event like he was editing a match card in a video game. The submission-only match between Sterling and Hayes delivered genuine intensity, especially when Hayes refused to release that ankle lock, but was it real? Or just exceptional acting?"

Rico paused again, realizing this might be his final opportunity to speak candidly to the readers who had supported him from the beginning. His expression softened as he typed the most difficult paragraph of his career.

"On a personal note, I should inform you all that yes, the rumors are true—Tapout has been acquired by Peak Media Group, the parent company of SFL. And as of the end of this month, I will no longer be the editor of Tapout or associated with it in any capacity. This is my choice, not theirs. I refuse to compromise seven years of honest, unfiltered reporting to become a corporate mouthpiece."

A blatant lie, but Rico and his loyal readers considered his words final. No debating. PMG had booted him the second the ink dried, but legalities kept him chained to the sinking ship for a few more weeks. Still, his version of events would be the one that lived on, the one his audience would rally behind. And that? That was enough. "To everyone who's supported this site, who's read my midnight rants and agreed with my controversial takes—thank you. You helped a kid from Queens with too many opinions and not enough credentials build something real. But now it's time for a new chapter for Rico Vega. I don't know what that chapter looks like yet, but I know it will be written with the same honesty that brought us here."

Where will I go? The question lingered in his mind, unanswered and increasingly urgent. But somehow, typing those words released a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.

"So, if this is indeed my final review, let me end with this: Summit Fighting League has the talent, the production value, and the potential to be something special in combat sports. But if what they're selling is scripted entertainment masquerading as legitimate competition, they owe their audience transparency. Because the difference between a breathtaking submission and a well-rehearsed performance is the difference between sport and theater. And fans deserve to know which ticket they're buying."

Rico leaned back in his creaky chair, reviewing what he had written. It was bold, potentially career-ending, but undeniably true. His mother called that dinner was ready from down the hall, unaware that her son was about to publish what might be the most controversial article of his career.

With a decisive click, he hit "Publish" rather than "Save Draft." There would be consequences tomorrow—legal threats, probably, and certainly the immediate termination of his remaining contract. But for the first time in months, Rico felt something resembling peace.

The truth had that effect sometimes.

Let the chips fall where they may, he thought, closing his laptop and rising from his chair. Whatever came next couldn't be worse than compromising the principles that had built Tapout in the first place. Sometimes the biggest fights happened outside the cage.

SFL: Exposed

The office space inside Logan Drake's hotel room barely deserved the name—a small desk cluttered with notes, a half-empty cup of day-old coffee, and his laptop screen casting a cold glow onto his tired face. He scrolled through the latest edition of Tapout, each paragraph deepening the lines around his eyes, jaw muscles working beneath his stubbled skin.

"Sources close to Peak Media Group have revealed that Victor Blackwell himself confirmed during an investor call that Summit Fighting League is, in fact, scripted—pre-determined outcomes and all. This revelation comes just weeks after SFL tried to position itself as the most legitimate combat sports promotion in the world. So, which is it? Are we watching the next evolution of fighting, or is it just pro wrestling with a fresh coat of paint?"

Rico Vega's name sat beneath the headline like a signature on an execution order. Logan exhaled sharply, the sound filling the silent room as he reached for his phone with robotic precision. His thumb jabbed at the screen, scrolling through the endless contacts list until he reached the “V"‘s”.

The call connected—one ring, two rings, then—

"Ah, Logan," Victor Blackwell responded, his voice dripping with a silken composure that set Logan's nerves on edge, making his teeth grind in frustration. "How gracious of you to call. Have you found a solution yet for MSG?"

Logan bit back the urge to lash out, determined not to let Victor's provocation throw him off course. His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning a ghostly white as he fought to maintain control.

"Why the hell would you claim it was scripted, Victor?" he demanded, his voice slicing through the air with an intensity he had never dared use against his employer before. "This changes everything. It undermines the very foundation of what we're building—"

A deliberate pause filled the line. Just long enough to let Logan feel the weight of Victor's indifference, to remind him which of them held true power.

"I did what I had to," Victor finally replied, his voice carrying the unhurried confidence of a man who never needed to explain himself, "to save your little precious promotion."

Logan felt his stomach twist as Victor continued, each word carrying the smug superiority that made Logan want to hurl the phone across the room.

"The state commission was coming after me for not having the proper licenses for Strike Force," Victor explained, drawing out the name like it was some quaint hobby rather than Logan's life's work. "Something I thought you had under control but, surprise surprise, you didn't. If anyone should be doing the shouting, Logan, it should be—"

"Don't you dare—"

"Always. Me."

Logan's pulse pounded in his ears, blood rushing with such force he could almost taste it. His free hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side.

"What the hell are you talking about, Victor?" Logan snapped, confusion momentarily overpowering his anger. "I never once said I had the state athletic commission handled. You were the one who said everything was being taken care of by the PMG machine." He mimicked Victor's distinctive cadence with venomous precision.

A soft chuckle filtered through the phone, the sound of genuine amusement at his expense. "Oh, that's adorable, Logan. Mocking me. That'll certainly fix your little predicament."

"Predicament? You just tanked the credibility of my promotion!" Logan surged to his feet, unable to remain still as the full implications crashed over him. "And for what? To dodge a licensing fee fine?"

Victor exhaled slowly, the sound carrying layers of condescension. "Logan, we need to be talking about the bigger issue here."

Logan's fingers tightened around the phone with such force that the case creaked in protest.

"Bigger issue?! What could be bigger than this?"

"Two point five."

Logan blinked, momentarily derailed. "What?"

"The rating."

The absurdity of Victor's concern in the face of existential crisis left Logan momentarily speechless. He stared at the hotel ceiling, counting to five before trusting himself to speak.

"You care about the rating Rico Vega gave?" Disbelief colored every syllable. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're unbelievable."

Victor's tone shifted instantly, false warmth replaced by the real icy precision of a man accustomed to absolute control. His words came in measured bursts, each one finding its target with surgical precision.

"No, Logan, I care about the fact that we only sold $15,000 in merchandise. That we barely managed to scrape together 1,300 ticket sales. That we pulled a TV rating of 0.18—which, in case you don't understand, is what companies care about before they even think about buying ad space on your shitty show. That we made a grand total of $52,000 in ticket sales. That doesn't even begin to cover expenses for this traveling circus of yours."

Each number hit Logan like a physical blow, his anger gradually transforming into something heavier, something dangerously close to despair. The cold reality of the numbers provided no room for argument—SFL was hemorrhaging money at a rate that no investor would tolerate indefinitely.

But this new narrative—this poisonous claim that everything they'd built was predetermined theater rather than legitimate competition? That would transform a difficult situation into an impossible one. Fighters would walk. Sponsors would flee. The athletic commissions that had been cautiously embracing them would shut their doors.

Logan sank back into his chair, the weight of understanding settling across his shoulders like a physical burden.

Everything was about to get so much worse.

Smoke, Mirrors & The Pinnacle

The conference hall buzzed with anticipation, a sea of cameras, reporters, and media executives packed into the pristine, corporate-polished space. The PMG logo was emblazoned on banners behind the stage, sleek and dominant, flanked by a massive LED screen that scrolled through promotional images of Peak Media's holdings—sports, entertainment, digital media.

Logan Drake adjusted his jacket, settling into his seat at the long table set for the press conference. He'd been told by Victor's assistant that this was about Kingdom Come, the biggest event in Summit Fighting League's short history. That was why he was here. That was why the press was here. He figured Victor would talk his usual corporate nonsense—hype up the pay-per-view, push ticket sales, maybe tease a new business deal.

Instead, Logan watched in real time as Victor Blackwell threw yet another curveball. Victor, always immaculately dressed, leaned into the podium with the presence of a man who knew exactly how to hold an audience in the palm of his hand. His platinum cufflinks gleamed beneath the lights as he smoothed the lapels of his dark navy suit before beginning.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Victor started, his voice carrying that effortless blend of charm and authority that had made him one of the most powerful media moguls in the world. "Thank you for being here today. You know, Peak Media Group has always been about evolution—about pushing industries forward, setting new standards, and defining the future. And today, I'm thrilled to share with you the next step in that journey."

Logan sat up slightly, waiting for Kingdom Come to be mentioned.

"PMG is proud to announce that construction has officially begun on The Pinnacle—a state-of-the-art venue and performance center, located in the heart of New York City."

A ripple of murmurs swept through the press. Logan's brow furrowed as he processed what he'd just heard. A new venue? This wasn't about Kingdom Come at all.

Victor continued, his smile widening.

"This will be the place where only the biggest events happen. Not just in combat sports, but in entertainment, music, and culture. If there's an event at the PMG Grand Arena—you will want to be there. Because nothing will be bigger than what happens under that roof."

His voice carried complete certainty. It wasn't just a statement—it was a call to arms. Logan swallowed hard, his fingers interlacing on the table in front of him. The meaning behind Victor's words was clear. This wasn't just about expanding PMG's empire—this was a direct challenge to Madison Square Garden. Victor Blackwell was setting out to bury the Garden and ensure that anyone who wanted to be seen, who wanted to matter in the world of sports and entertainment, would do business his way or not at all.

Jesus Christ… Logan thought, his mind racing. He'd been blindsided again. The press wasted no time pouncing on the opportunity for controversy.

"Mr. Blackwell," a reporter called out from the front row, adjusting his recorder. "Last week, a leaked conversation suggested that Strike Force Legends was scripted, per your own words. Given that SFL was built on the foundation of that event, do you stand by those comments?"

The question sent a hush through the room. Logan could feel every camera shift its lens, every microphone pointed at Victor like a sniper ready to take a shot. Victor's response? Classic corporate non-answer.

"I'm glad you asked that," Victor said smoothly, shifting ever so slightly in his chair to adopt the relaxed-yet-in-control posture of a man who knew how to maneuver an interrogation. "What I can say is that Peak Media Group is committed to delivering the most exciting, most authentic, and most groundbreaking combat sports content in the world. The lines between competition and entertainment have always blurred in this industry—our job is to make sure that every event we put on is must-see. And I think the numbers speak for themselves."

A vague smile, a glance toward the crowd. A masterclass in dodging the question while making it sound like an answer.

Logan clenched his jaw. Are you fucking kidding me?

Another journalist cut in before Victor could move on. "Mr. Drake, do you have anything to add to that? Given your role as the face of SFL, do you—"

Before Logan could even lean forward, Victor was already on his feet, his voice cutting through the room with practiced finality.

"And that will be all for today," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Thank you all for attending. The PMG family is very excited about our future."

And just like that, it was over.

The whispers of reporters were drowned out by the rustling of papers, the shifting of chairs, the movement of a hundred people scrambling to dissect what had just happened.

Logan, still seated, exhaled slowly. He had wanted to speak. He needed to speak. But Victor had shut it down before he even had the chance.

Victor's gaze flicked toward him, reading the frustration that Logan didn't bother to hide. A smirk curled at the edge of his lips—controlled, deliberate, victorious. Then, with a casual turn, he stepped off the stage and disappeared behind the curtains.

As he did, Genny Vaughn stood off to the side, watching from the shadows. Victor barely broke stride as he passed her, but his voice, low and edged with irritation, cut like a blade.

"I shouldn't have to fucking save myself from questions that are also grenades, Genny. You're head of PR. That's your job."

Before she could respond, he brushed past her, moving toward the elevator without another glance.

Logan caught Genny's eye as she turned, her expression unreadable. He forced a polite smile, an unspoken acknowledgment of the power struggle they were both trapped in. But she didn't return it. Instead, without a word, she turned and followed in Victor's footsteps, leaving Logan alone in the wreckage.

Because this wasn't about SFL. This wasn't about Kingdom Come. Victor Blackwell was playing a game much bigger than Logan had realized. And once again, Logan was left scrambling to keep up.

The Irish Fire Burns

Matthew hunched over his drink in the corner of O'Malley's, grateful for the soft lighting that shrouded his face. The bar's worn wooden floors and low ceiling created the perfect refuge—quiet enough to hear your thoughts, anonymous enough to escape them. Just what he needed tonight.

"Another?" The bartender's voice cut through his brooding.

Matthew nodded absent mindedly, his gaze fixed on the dark beer as it poured into the glass with a deep, inky flow. The minimal light caught the liquid as it filled his glass. The familiar aroma of good Irish beer wafted upward, momentarily transporting him back to Cork, to simpler times before his name became fodder for fight analysts and keyboard warriors.

Scripted losses. Fixed fights. Playing the heel.

The words from that damned Tapout article churned in his gut, more potent than the beers he'd been pounding one by one for the past hour. He took another sip, letting the heavy Irish beer coat his tongue with its rich, malty depth. The roasted barley and hints of coffee lingered as it settled smoothly, its weighty presence warming his chest with each swallow.

"You've earned this," he muttered to himself, tracing a finger over the fresh scar above his eye—a souvenir from his last fight with Cade Mercer. The stitches had only come out last week. The memory flashed in his mind: the roar of the crowd, the taste of blood, the desperation as he'd tried to find an answer for Mercer's relentless pressure. He hadn't found one. Not that night.

"Eighteen minutes," he whispered, "Eighteen minutes in that cage with everything I had, and these bastards think I let him win?"

His knuckles whitened around the glass. Years of fighting—from backroom brawls in Belfast to now the bright lights of New York—reduced to conspiracy theories by people who'd never stepped foot in a cage.

Through the mirror behind the bar, Matthew caught sight of two men a few stools down. One wore a knockoff SFL hoodie, the other a baseball cap turned backward. They were hunched over their phones, voices just loud enough to carry.

"Did you see that new breakdown of the Mercer-Matthew rematch?" Baseball Cap snickered, scrolling through something on his screen. "Says Matthew let Cade hit the reversal. Practically gift-wrapped the pinfall."

His companion nodded too eagerly. "Guess it was all a work, huh? No wonder he lost to Mercer twice."

Something snapped inside Matthew. The glass shattered against the bar top before he even realized he'd slammed it down. Shards scattered across the polished wood, glinting like ice in the low light. The sound cut through the drone of conversations, plunging the bar into sudden silence.

Matthew rose slowly to his full height, six-foot-two of twisted fury. His breathing came purposeful and measured—a fighter's breath, the kind that preceded violence in the cage.

"Oi! Gobshite, say that shite again." His Irish accent, already thick, slurred slightly under the weight of one too many beers, making the words harder to untangle. One thing was clear though, it wasn’t a request.

The two men froze, their earlier bravado evaporating under his stare. Baseball Cap swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"We—uh, we didn't know—"

"Didn't know what exactly?" Matthew took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He could feel the bartender watching carefully, hand likely hovering near the baseball bat kept under the counter. "Didn’t see me sittin’ here, is it? Or maybe ye didn’t mean to piss on every drop o’ blood I’ve spilled in that cage—every busted bone, every feckin’ thing I’ve given up just to stand in there?”

His mind flashed to the birthday parties missed, the relationships failed, the mornings spent in hospital rooms—all for the sport, all for the respect he'd earned with his own two hands.

"Look, man," the taller one stammered, hands raised in surrender, "we were just talking about the article. We don't actually know anything about—"

"That's right," Matthew cut him off, voice dangerously soft now. "Ya haven’t a feckin’ clue, lad."

The bar remained silent, spectators to a potential explosion. Matthew could feel it within himself—the temptation to demonstrate exactly what years of fighting discipline could do to an untrained mouth. One shot. That's all it would take.

But that's what they want, isn't it? The thought surfaced through his anger. The Irish hothead. The brawler who can't control himself. Just another headline for tomorrow.

With tremendous effort, Matthew unclenched his fists. He pulled out his wallet, dropped a fifty on the counter, and nodded at the bartender.

"Sorry about the glass."

With one final glare at the two men—who were practically melting into their seats—he turned and walked toward the exit. Each step felt heavy with unspent rage, with words unsaid and punches not thrown.

The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of his anger. He stood there for a moment, letting his breathing slow, watching his breath form clouds in the cold.

Let them talk, he thought, the resolution hardening inside him like forged steel. Let them all talk. Matthew didn't need to prove himself with bar fights and broken jaws. He'd do it where it mattered—in the cage, under the lights, with the whole world watching.

Next time he faced Cade Mercer, there would be no questions, no doubts, no whispers of scripts or predetermined outcomes.

Only respect.

Or blood.

He'd accept either.

The Heartbeat of Pain

Each impact against the heavy bag sent shockwaves up Cade Mercer's arms. The dull, rhythmic thuds echoed through the empty training room like a heartbeat—steady, relentless, angry. Sweat cascaded down his face, burning his eyes, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

This wasn't like him—this unraveling, this display of raw emotion. Cade Mercer, the man who had been dubbed "The Juggernaut" for his methodical approach and unwavering composure. Yet here he was, hammering away at a bag like it had personally insulted his family.

The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the word that had been haunting him for days.

Scripted.

His jaw clenched as he landed another devastating blow. The bag swung violently, its chains creaking in protest.

"Is this how champions handle criticism?"

Clayton Reed's voice cut through Cade's concentration. The manager stood in the doorway, in his usual purple tailored suit—a stark contrast to the gritty, sweat-soaked training room. His expression betrayed nothing, but his eyes widened slightly at the unusual sight of Cade's barely contained fury.

"You read it." It wasn't a question. Cade didn't look at Clayton, focusing instead on maintaining his rhythm against the bag. Left jab. Right cross. Left hook. Repeat. Anything to keep the mask from slipping further.

"Rico Vega’s been writing hit pieces and grasping for straws for years," Clayton said, his tone maddeningly calm as he stepped further into the room. "His opinions aren't worth the pixels they're printed on."

Cade finally stopped, grabbing the swinging bag to steady it. His chest heaved with exertion, but the fire in his eyes wasn't from physical exhaustion. Clayton had seen Cade through fifteen professional fights, through broken bones and split skin, and not once had he seen this look on his face.

"'Is Mercer really the guy? Or did the script just say so?'" Cade quoted bitterly, the words tasting like poison. The control he prided himself on—the calm, measured demeanor that had become his trademark—was fracturing visibly. "Not even one month, Clayton. I haven't been the champion for one month, and they're already saying I didn't earn it."

Clayton crossed the room with measured steps, surprised by this unprecedented crack in Cade's usually impenetrable composure. "And what do you say?"

"What do I—" Cade ripped off his gloves, launching them across the room where they smacked against the wall and slid to the floor. The uncharacteristic outburst hung in the air between them. Clayton stared. In three years, he had never seen Cade throw anything in anger.

"I've put everything into this! Trained 'til my body gave out, taken beatings, missed my best friend's funeral—all for this!" He jabbed a finger toward the championship belt resting on the bench, his chest rising and falling with frustration. "And now what? Some dirt sheet hack scribbles a few lines, and suddenly I'm a fraud? SFL's puppet?"

A placeholder. A fraud. A paper champion. The thoughts came unbidden, each one a knife twisting deeper, stripping away the stoic facade he had cultivated for years.

Clayton remained composed, though inwardly alarmed by this side of Cade he'd never witnessed. "You're letting him win by even acknowledging this."

"The whole damn roster will be talking about it," Cade snapped, pacing around the gym, his restless energy making it impossible to stand still. For a fighter known for his stillness, for his economy of movement, this frenetic energy was jarring. "I can feel it already—the side-eye, the whispers. The respect I fought for—vanishing because one asshole with a keyboard decided to question my legitimacy."

"And how does spiraling like this help?" Clayton asked, his voice taking on an edge for the first time. "You think proving you're mentally weak is going to silence those whispers? This isn't you, Cade."

Cade stopped pacing, the words landing like a slap. "I'm not weak."

"Then stop acting like it." Clayton moved closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me. PR nightmares are my specialty. This? This is nothing. But you letting it get to you? That's everything. I've never seen you like this, and frankly, it's more concerning than any article."

The observation hit home. Cade turned away, grabbing a towel to wipe his face, using the moment to recollect the pieces of his composure. His heart rate was finally slowing, but the anger remained—now directed partially at himself for this unprecedented loss of control.

"I can't have people thinking I didn't earn this," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning, struggling to find his way back to the disciplined fighter everyone expected him to be.

Clayton sighed, and for a moment, the calculated businessman facade cracked. "Kid, there will always be people questioning you. Champion or not. That's the price of success."

Cade looked up, surprised by the rare display of genuine emotion from his typically jovial manager. "You want to silence the doubt?" Clayton continued, tapping the championship belt with his finger. "Defend this. Dominate. Make them believe. Because the moment you start fighting to prove something to them instead of yourself—that's when you've already lost."

The words hung between them, heavy with truth. Cade exhaled slowly, feeling something shift inside him. The noise in his head hadn't disappeared, but it had quieted enough for him to think clearly again. The familiar calm began to return—that centered focus that had carried him through every challenge before this.

"Yeah," he nodded, straightening his shoulders, visibly pulling the fragments of his composure back together. "You're right."

Clayton studied him for a moment longer, relieved to see the familiar controlled demeanor returning, then satisfied, gave a curt nod. "Good. Now get some rest. Tomorrow, we focus on Kingdom Come. Let me worry about the media circus."

As Clayton turned to leave, his phone already in hand, Cade called after him. "Clayton."

His manager paused, looking back. "Thanks," Cade said simply, the word weighted with the acknowledgment of his momentary lapse.

Clayton's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Just doing my job." Then he was gone, leaving Cade alone with the still-swinging bag.

Cade approached his championship belt, running his fingers along the pristine metal plates. No history, no battle-worn marks—just untouched gold waiting to be defined. Now, it was his story to write.

Let them talk, he thought, his characteristic discipline reasserting itself, a new determination hardening within him like steel being forged. I'll give them something worth talking about.

Because Cade Mercer was nobody's paper champion. And soon, the whole world would know it.

The Only One Who Gets It

The neon sign for 94.3 The Roar buzzed and flickered against the gray Charlotte skyline, its harsh red glow cutting through the early evening drizzle. Inside the soundproofed studio, Jackie Rowe adjusted his headphones and studied the man sitting across from him with barely concealed distaste.

Glenn "The Golden Boy" Sterling wasn't just wearing a suit—he was inhabiting it. The three-piece Italian designer ensemble probably cost more than Jackie's monthly mortgage. Sterling reclined in the studio chair like a king on a throne, one leg crossed over the other, his opulent time piece gleaming under the studio lights.

Pompous bastard hasn't changed a bit, Jackie thought, memories of Sterling's infamous post-fight interviews flashing through his mind.

"Two minutes till we're live," the producer called through the glass.

Jackie nodded, then leaned forward. "Look, Sterling, my listeners expect real talk. No PR bullshit, alright? That's not what we do here."

Glenn's lips sculpted into what could generously be called a smile. "Oh, I'm counting on it, Jackie boy." His voice carried that distinctive blend of southern cadence and professional wrestler, that had made him both beloved and despised throughout his career. "Your listeners deserve nothing but the truth from The Golden Boy."

The ON AIR light blinked to life, bathing the room in a crimson glow that matched the tension crackling between them.

"Welcome back to Rowe Rage Radio, Charlotte's undisputed king of sports talk!" Jackie Rowe's raspy voice punched through the airwaves, crackling with the signature fiery indignation that had earned him his cult following. "I'm your host, Jackie Rowe, and folks, buckle up—today's show is either gonna be a five-star classic or a complete disaster, depending on which side of the fence you're standing on."

He leaned toward his guest, eyes narrowing. "Sitting across from me is Charlotte wrestling royalty, a man whose gold-plated resume is matched only by his gold-plated ego—Hall of Famer Glenn 'The Golden Boy' Sterling." Jackie paused, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he studied his guest. "What are we up to now, Glenn? Five? Six-time World Champion?"

Glenn reclined in his chair with practiced nonchalance, sunlight glinting off his gold watch as he adjusted his designer glasses. "Seven, Jackie. Seven-time World Champion." He tapped the table with each word for emphasis. "But hey—" he flashed his million-dollar smile, "—who's counting when you've shattered as many records as I have, right?"

Glenn offered a theatrical bow from his seated position. "Charmed to grace your humble program, Jackie."

Jackie cut straight to the chase. "Alright, Glenn, let's cut the crap and get to it. You saw the Tapout article, you saw the backlash. I gotta ask you straight up—what's your reaction to people saying SFL is scripted?"

A beat of silence followed. Any other wrestler would have bristled, would have defended their sport's legitimacy with fire and fury. But Glenn Sterling was no longer a wrestler, he was a now a fighter. Glenn merely tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he leaned into the microphone.

"My dear boy," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, "of course it was."

Jackie blinked twice, momentarily thrown off his rhythm. "Wait... what?"

Glenn straightened his already perfect tie, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Everything I do is a masterpiece of performance. I don't just fight—I entertain. I craft moments. I create magic. That's why people remember my name while the rest of these lads are just hoping to be part of the conversation."

Is he working me? Jackie wondered, years of media experience suddenly insufficient in the face of Sterling's audacity. The man had always been unpredictable, but this was something else entirely.

"So, you're saying you weren't actually fighting?" Jackie pressed, leaning forward. "That it was all just an act?"

Glenn exhaled dramatically, fixing Jackie with a look of exaggerated patience, as if explaining quantum physics to a toddler.

"Look at you, trying to dissect greatness with that armchair psychology." He shook his head with practiced patience, as he waved away Jackie's question like swatting an annoying fly. "Jackie, let me break it down for your listeners—whether it was scripted, unscripted, divine intervention, or carved into the bedrock of wrestling history itself, when the dust settled and the smoke cleared..."

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a theatrical near-whisper, perfectly calibrated to force thousands of commuters to turn up their radios. His eyes locked with Jackie's, savoring the moment with the timing of a seasoned performer who knew exactly how long to hold the audience in suspense.

"Glenn Sterling didn't just show up." He punctuated each word with a light tap of his championship ring against the microphone. "Glenn Sterling delivered."

Jackie felt his face flush with frustration. This was classic Sterling—redirecting, manipulating, turning every interaction into his own personal stage show. And the worst part? It made for absolutely fantastic radio.

"You do realize you're the only guy not losing his mind over this, right?" Jackie countered, arms crossed defensively. "Rumor has it, Matthew's breaking glass in bars, Cade Mercer is on the verge of a meltdown, Jax Braddock is questioning everything—"

Glenn lifted a manicured hand, stopping Jackie mid-sentence.

"Because they don't understand the game," he said, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper that forced listeners to lean in closer. "They're out there feeling things. Wrestling with their emotions."

The contempt in his voice was blatant as he leaned back, surveying the studio like a general overlooking a battlefield. "Meanwhile, I'm doing what I've always done—showing up and getting richer while everyone else scrambles to figure out how to fix their shattered little egos."

Jackie couldn't help but laugh—not with amusement, but with disbelief. Twenty years in sports radio, and Glenn Sterling was still the most infuriating interview he'd ever conducted. The man was either the greatest fighter who ever lived or the most committed con artist in sports history. Maybe both.

"Man, you are something else," Jackie shook his head, genuinely impressed despite himself. "You really don't give a damn, do you?"

Glenn flashed that signature Sterling grin—the one that had graced magazine covers, promotional posters, and highlight reels for over a decade. It never quite reached his eyes, which remained calculating, always measuring the impact of his performance.

"Of course I don't, Jackie," he replied with practiced certainty. "Because I'm the only one who gets it."

The statement stretched between them, heavy with implication. Jackie knew he should press further, should demand clarification, should pin Sterling down on what exactly "it" was. But as Glenn Sterling reclined in his chair, utterly at ease while the entire SFL world burned around him, Jackie realized the truth: Sterling thrived in chaos. Always had. Whether in the cage or out of it, the man knew exactly what he was doing. Creating his legacy, one controversy at a time.

The red ON AIR light continued to glow, and across the Carolinas, thousands of listeners sat riveted, hanging on every word of a man who had elevated fighting to an art form—and maybe, just maybe, had been playing them all along.

Eighty-Eight Days

The familiar buzzing of a fluorescent light in the corner of the hotel room casted sickly shadows across Jax Braddock's worn face. Outside, rain lashed against the window, but the storm brewing inside him made the weather seem gentle by comparison.

Jax's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the nightstand, staring down at his phone. The single text message glowed accusingly up at him:

"Fight the good fight of faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called." —1 Timothy 6:12

His throat tightened. Faith. What a damn joke that seemed now."A scripted fighter?" he growled, voice barely above a whisper. "A fuckin' joke?" The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

He pushed away from the nightstand and began to pace the cramped room, heavy boots wearing a path in the threadbare carpet. Each step matched the pounding in his skull, a metronome keeping time with his racing thoughts.

Fifteen years. Fifteen goddamn years he'd been fighting. From backyard brawls in Tennessee to underground circuits in Vegas to the bright lights of the SFL. Every broken bone, every torn ligament, every stitch—they all told the story of a man who had poured everything into the sport, leaving pieces of himself behind in every ring and cage he stepped into.

And now? Now they were saying it was all fake.

Jax stopped at the window, his reflection staring back at him through the rain-streaked glass. The face in the glass didn’t belong to a thirty-one-year-old—it belonged to a man who had spent a lifetime taking hits. Faint scars traced his brow, deep lines settled around weary eyes that had seen too much, and his once-unshakable posture carried the weight of wars that never truly ended.

"What am I supposed to tell my boy?" he asked his reflection, voice breaking. "That his old man's just playing pretend out there? That it's all a damn show?"

The memory of his son's face after the last time he saw him fight, those proud eyes looking up at him, even in defeat. The boy who still believed his father was unbreakable, unstoppable.

"Daddy, you still fought good," the boy had said, small hand patting his bruised knuckles.

Jax pressed his forehead against the cool glass, eyes squeezed shut against the sudden burning sensation. His phone vibrated again—probably his manager calling to "manage" the situation. Jax ignored it.

Instead, his gaze drifted to the mini-bar across the room, its small door slightly ajar, revealing rows of tiny bottles promising temporary relief. Eighty-eight days sober, and still those bottles looked like old friends offering comfort.

Just one, a familiar voice whispered in the back of his mind. Just to take the edge off. No one would know. His legs carried him to the mini-bar before his mind had fully committed. His hand closed around a small bottle of whiskey, the glass cool against his fevered skin. The weight of it felt right, felt known.

One twist and he could pour it down his throat. One moment of weakness after years of strength. From his phone, the verse still glowed: "Fight the good fight of faith..."

"Faith in what?" Jax muttered bitterly. "Faith in who?"

The voices of commentators and journalists echoed in his mind:

"Braddock's clearly out of his league..."

"Maybe the mad dog should retire before he embarrasses himself further..."

"Was that submission too convenient? Too clean?"

With every echo, his grip on the bottle tightened until his knuckles went white.

"No," he growled, the single word carrying the weight of conviction.

In one violent motion, he hurled the bottle against the wall. The sound of shattering glass split the air like a thunderclap. Liquid trickled down the peeling wallpaper, beading like drops of blood. Jax stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. The broken glass at his feet reflected the light in fractured patterns—beautiful in their jagged destruction.

Sobriety hadn't been easy. Nothing in his life had been easy. Every step, every victory, every moment of peace had been fought for and earned with blood and sweat. He wasn't about to let some article, some rumors, some lies take that away from him.

With newfound clarity, Jax grabbed his gym bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. He took one last look at the phone, at the verse that now seemed less like mockery and more like a challenge.

"Alright then," he said to the empty room, voice steady for the first time that night. "Let's fight."

The door closed behind him with a decisive click. In the silent room, whiskey continued to drip down the wall, the broken bottle a testament to battles fought—and won—when no one was watching.

Jax Braddock had something to prove now. Not to the doubters. Not to the critics. Not even to his son.

To himself.

And he'd do it the only way he knew how—with his heart on his sleeve and his fists raised high. The next fight wouldn't be for a belt. It wouldn't be for glory. It would be for truth.

The Flood of Rebellion

The taxi's interior reeked of cheap pine air freshener battling decades of spilled coffee and cigarette smoke. Rain pattered against the windows, turning the outside world into a smeared watercolor painting of city lights and neon signs. Logan Drake barely registered any of it. His entire universe had collapsed to the five-inch screen clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

His phone buzzed again. And again. And again. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, thumb hovering over the notifications that kept stacking like dominos ready to fall. The locker room wasn't just upset—they were in full-scale insurrection.

— Titan: "You expect me to show up after that bullshit? Ain't happening."

Logan started typing a response, only to be interrupted by three more notifications in rapid succession.

— Matthew: "Not a bleedin’ chance I’m showin’ up to be made a feckin’ eejit. Not after the shite that’s been said. This whole thing’s a right balls-up, mate."

— Colton Hayes: "Look, man, you know I’ve got your back. But I’m getting questions from the boys, and I don’t know what to tell them. If SFL is fake, does that mean the other fighters fights weren’t real either? Because my ribs sure as hell say otherwise."

— Jax Braddock: "I ain't gonna be part of this circus, Logan. No Contenders for me."

"Driver, can you turn up the heat?" Logan asked, suddenly aware of the chill spreading through his body. The taxi driver grunted in acknowledgment, but Logan was already back to his phone, fingers moving frantically across the screen.

How the hell did we get here? he thought, the question burning through his mind like acid. One article. One goddamn Tapout article—and Victor Blackwell lying through his teeth to investors on a leaked call—and now everything we’ve built is crumbling.

His phone vibrated with a message that made his stomach drop.

— Glenn Sterling: "You know you can always count on me, but my payout will require a couple of additional zeros on it. That said, if the whole roster ain't working... well, I am a main event guy, and main event guys don’t work ghost towns."

"Shit," Logan hissed through clenched teeth.

His thoughts were interrupted by the one message he'd been dreading most.

— Clayton Reed: "Handle it."

Two words. Just two simple words. Sure, they didn’t come from the champion himself, but they came from his mouthpiece—so they might as well have been from Mercer directly. Logan felt the weight of them like a concrete slab on his chest. Mercer wasn't just telling him to fix the situation—he was warning him. If Logan couldn't get this under control, their relationship would be the next casualty.

The taxi swerved around a delivery truck, sending Logan sliding across the cracked leather seat. Outside, the rain intensified, sheets of water cascading down the windows, mirroring the flood of messages drowning his inbox.

Think, Drake. Think.

His fingers hovered over the screen, the words not coming. What could he possibly say to men who felt their entire professional identities had been called into question? What magic combination of words would convince them that their careers, their sacrifices, their pain meant something?

Before he could compose a thought, another message appeared—the one he'd been most dreading.

— Victor Blackwell: "I assume you're handling this. I'd hate to have to step in."

"Of course you would," Logan muttered bitterly, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel a headache building at his temples. "You set the damn house on fire and now you're threatening to call the fire department."

Victor was the reason they were in this mess. His cavalier comments about the "entertainment value" of SFL had been twisted by that Tapout writer into accusations of scripted outcomes. And now, true to form, Victor was issuing thinly veiled threats while Logan scrambled to salvage what remained.

Another buzz.

— Sebastian Greer: "Logan, you need to get a handle on this before Victor does."

The warning sent a chill down Logan's spine. Sebastian rarely reached out directly, preferring to keep his hands clean of operational mess. If he was concerned enough to message...

If I don't fix this, Victor will, Logan realized, the thought crystallizing like ice in his veins. And he won't use diplomacy or reason. He'll use fear and replacements. Careers will end. Fighters will be blackballed. And the sport we've built will never recover.

The taxi jerked to a stop at a red light, throwing Logan forward against his seatbelt. The momentary jolt snapped him out of his spiral. He took a deep breath and began typing with renewed determination.

To Matthew: "I hear you. Let's talk. No cameras. Just you and me. Give me 20 minutes."

Send.

To Colton Hayes: "Man, you know me better than that. You think I'd ever let someone like Victor control the narrative? I need you there."

His fingers were flying now, finding their rhythm. Logan had always been good in a crisis—it was why Victor had hired him in the first place. Problem-solver. Fixer. The man who could talk anyone into or out of anything.

Before he could finish his next message, the phone vibrated in his hand.

— Jax Braddock: "Tell me one good reason I should show up, Logan. Just one."

Logan's fingers froze over the keyboard. Jax wasn't like the others. He couldn't be manipulated with promises of bigger paydays or threats of career setbacks. The man had battled battles people weren’t aware of, poverty, and more personal demons than the rest of the roster combined. He needed truth.

But what truth can I offer him? Logan wondered, swallowing hard. That everything I’ve built and promoted is held together with duct tape and lies? That I'm one bad press conference away from losing control completely?

He started typing, erased it, started again. Words had always been his weapon, his shield, his salvation. But now, when he needed them most...

The screen suddenly froze, then went black before displaying the searching signal icon.

"No, no, no," Logan muttered, tapping frantically at his phone as the taxi passed under a steel bridge. The signal disappeared completely, leaving him in digital silence for the first time in hours.

Logan let his head fall back against the seat, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. His phone—his lifeline to a drowning organization—was useless. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Everything alright back there?" the driver asked, eyes meeting Logan's in the rearview mirror.

Logan stared at his black screen, seeing his own reflection staring back—tired eyes, clenched jaw, the look of a man watching everything slip through his fingers. "Yeah," he lied, slipping the useless phone into his pocket. "Everything's fine."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing away the day, just as Victor's words had washed away years of hard work and legitimacy. As the taxi emerged from under the bridge, Logan's phone remained silent. No signal. No answers. No control.