Kingdom Come - Preshow

CHAPTER 13

KINGDOM COME

Over the past month, the world of combat sports has transformed in ways no one saw coming. Strike Force Legends—once touted as the future of the industry—met a swift and unceremonious end, its death giving rise to the Summit Fighting League: raw, unpredictable, and already teetering between chaos and greatness. New rivalries flared to life, none more volatile than Julian St. James and Happy Jack—two men seemingly born to destroy each other. Meanwhile, old grudges refused to die, with Colton Hayes and Glenn Sterling reigniting their war with venom and violence. At the top of the mountain, three giants—Titan, Matthew, and Cade Mercer—jockeyed for supremacy, each with something to prove and everything to lose. But behind the scenes, the real war raged between Logan Drake and his powerful boss, Victor Blackwell. After a blood-soaked match caused Madison Square Garden to cancel the biggest event in SFL history, it was Logan—not Victor—who scrambled to find a new venue. He did, but it came with a tight window and even tighter pressure. And just when it seemed things couldn’t spiral further, Victor went to extraordinary lengths to keep one man—Grizz—away from Logan Drake, proving once again that in Summit Fighting League, the fights inside the cage are only half the story.

Local Time: 5 pm EST

The first two hours had passed in a blur—a frantic, chaotic blur that Logan Drake had barely registered until now. First, there was traffic. Of course there was traffic. It was New York. Getting across town felt more like a full-contact sport than a commute, and Logan spent the first thirty minutes of his eight-hour countdown stuck behind a garbage truck on Tuckahoe Road, clenching his jaw as the seconds evaporated off the clock.

Second, came the locked door. Not the front entrance—no, that worked just fine. It was the back utility access where the production staff needed to unload everything from lighting rigs to camera cases. Logan arrived first, only to find the steel door sealed tight and no one with a key in sight. He paced. He called. He paced again. Twenty-six minutes passed before a sleepy maintenance guy finally strolled up with a ring of keys and a shrug, muttering something about the wrong building code being entered in the system.

By the time Logan and his skeleton crew were finally inside, precious time had already been lost. No one yelled. No one needed to. The clock was already screaming.

Now, settled in what had once been a janitor’s supply closet, the halogen lights buzzed overhead with the hum of cheap electricity, casting a sterile glow across what passed for a command center. It was little more than a folding table, two mismatched chairs, and a stack of banker's boxes doubling as filing cabinets. A single window offered muted, yellow-blind glimpses of a world still spinning beyond the high-stakes frenzy within.

Logan Drake’s entire operational empire had been reduced to this room: a scratched-up laptop, a heap of coffee-stained reports, and a phone vibrating with fresh problems every few seconds. He sat hunched in a chair that felt like it had been designed by someone with a vendetta against posture, scrolling through early analytics and production notes with the eyes of a man deep in a war with the clock.

2,000 tickets sold.

Logan paused, considering this number with unexpected relief washing over him. Two thousand tickets in the Westchester County Center meant a nearly packed house—an intimate, energetic crowd that would telegraph well on camera. The same number would have been catastrophic at Madison Square Garden, a cavernous tomb of empty seats that no camera angle could disguise.

Maybe it was odd to think this way, but losing MSG might have been the most fortunate setback they'd encountered. Two thousand passionate fans in a smaller venue created atmosphere. Two thousand scattered souls in the Garden created failure. Sometimes the universe pushed you exactly where you needed to be, even when it felt like you were falling.

He continued his assessment with this new perspective coloring his outlook. Estimated PPV buys based on early trends? The numbers were promising—not record-breaking, but solid enough. The controversial nature of the past few weeks had generated buzz, if nothing else. Sometimes, any publicity truly was good publicity.

Merchandise pre-orders? Lower than projected, trending approximately 22% below target. Not ideal, but merchandise looked better in a packed venue than an empty one. The cameras would capture fans wearing SFL shirts, creating the impression of a thriving brand rather than one fighting for survival.

Logan exhaled—not in frustration this time, but in something approaching acceptance. The numbers weren't spectacular, but perhaps SFL wasn't meant to be spectacular yet. Perhaps this was exactly the right size, the right moment, the right crucible to forge something authentic rather than overextended.

After weeks of trying to contain the damage from Victor Blackwell's leaked comments implying matches were predetermined, the subsequent roster rebellion, and the Contenders go-home show disaster, Logan was beginning to see a different path forward. Not the explosive growth that Victor had promised the public, but something more sustainable—a promotion built on quality rather than quantity.

The battered PMG phone buzzed against the metal table, the screen illuminating with a name that practically carried its own soundtrack of chaos:

Clayton Reed.

Of course it was. Cade Mercer's ever-mouthy manager—a former band manager who swapped sold-out arenas for steel cages, and tour buses for title runs. Clayton had parlayed his flair for hype into a second life as a fight game maestro, equal parts carnival barker and corner strategist. He could sell ice to a glacier and convince a referee to question their own decision. If Clayton was calling four hours before showtime, it wasn’t to say hello. It was to stir the pot.

Logan allowed himself one deep breath before answering, his voice steadier than it had been in weeks.

“Clayton,” he said evenly. “Calling to tell me everything’s perfect and you’re finally taking a day off?”

“Funny,” Clayton replied, voice smooth and quick, like a man flipping through a mental checklist while pacing in expensive sneakers. “Just making sure there are no surprises tonight. Cade’s walking into that cage expecting a fight, not a circus.”

Logan leaned back, let the silence hang a beat, then offered a half-hearted jab.

“No surprises? Like Cade inserting himself into the main event?”

Clayton didn’t bite. Didn’t have to. The smirk was practically audible through the receiver.

“To be fair,” Logan continued, tone dry, “if anything, that stunt’s gonna spike the pay-per-view buys.”

“Glad we could help,” Clayton said smoothly. “Now let’s just make sure nobody gets cute between now and the final bell.”

"We're set," Logan assured him, leaning back in his chair with unexpected comfort. "Cade, Titan, and Matthew—main event. Three-way dance for the title. No extra moving pieces. The fight happens as planned."

The silence that followed lasted precisely three heartbeats—Logan counted them, recognizing the negotiator's tactic of uncomfortable pause.

"Good," Clayton finally said, the word clipped and final. "Because Cade isn't in the mood for surprises."

"Neither am I," Logan replied, allowing himself a small smile. "But I am in the mood for a great show."

As the call ended, Logan placed the phone screen-down on the table and surveyed his humble command center with fresh eyes. A month ago, this setup would have felt like failure—a humiliating step down from the grandiose vision Victor had painted. Now, it felt right-sized, authentic, manageable.

Tonight, couldn't just be successful—it needed to be real. Not bloated with spectacle or over-promised grandeur, but genuine competition that connected with the audience. Perhaps the SFL's salvation wasn't in trying to be the biggest promotion in combat sports overnight, but in being the most honest one—a place where the fighting spoke for itself.

No issues. No surprises. Just good fights in front of engaged fans.

Six hours. He just needed to navigate the next six hours, not avoiding disaster but embracing whatever came. Six hours until the final bell. Six hours that would define not just the event, but perhaps the future direction of the entire promotion.

Outside his makeshift office, the first strains of entrance music began testing through the sound system—bass notes reverberating through the walls like a racing heartbeat.

Maybe, just maybe, the SFL was exactly where it needed to be.

Time to go to work.

Local Time: 6 pm EST

The hallway thrummed with an electrifying pre-fight energy, a powerful force that both invigorated and unsettled as every second passed. Production assistants fired commands through crackling radios, lighting rigs buzzed overhead like mechanical hornets, and camera crews navigated labyrinths of cable cages with the focused intensity of soldiers preparing for an ambush. The atmosphere was laden with contradictions: the mix of sweat and cologne, the blend of determination and doubt. The metallic tang of equipment and the bitter aroma of burnt coffee—the unmistakable bouquet of combat sports operating on borrowed time.

Logan Drake stood unmoving in this manufactured mayhem; hands pressed flat against the production table where tonight's lineup papers lay scattered like battlefield coordinates. Red ink bled across white pages—urgent notations, timing adjustments, PMG demands—evidence of the frantic recalibration he'd been forced to execute after the last second change to book a whole new venue.

Two hours. Three fights. No margin for error.

He'd compressed his vision into something tight, ruthless, marketable. A standard bout to open. The thirty-minute Iron Man match as centerpiece. The triple threat main event as the crown jewel. Not ideal, but workable. Logan felt like we was starting to build his reputation on making impossible situations look planned.

Which is why the clipboard that materialized at his elbow felt like a detonator being armed.

"Final layout, Drake."

He glanced sideways at the production assistant—Dan or Dave or some other interchangeable face in the revolving door of staff that cycled through events. Names weren't important; competence was. Logan took the clipboard without speaking, muscle memory guiding his fingers through pages with

mechanical precision.

Main event—intact.

Iron Man bout—positioned properly.

Then his eyes locked on a line that shouldn't exist:

OPENING FIGHT: JAX BRADDOCK VS..

Logan's expression hardened, thumb hovering over the unfamiliar name as if physical contact might reveal some explanation.

“Braddock?”

Logan thought to himself, “I didn’t book Braddock…and his opponents name…” The name left Logan’s mouth like a challenge, hard-edged and flat. “Who authorized this?”

The production assistant froze—posture stiffening, eyes flicking toward the hallway like he was hoping for an escape hatch. He gripped the clipboard tighter, swallowed hard.

“I was just told to—”

“I did.”

The voice cut clean through the backstage noise—loud, demanding, and unmistakably controlled. Logan turned to see Sebastian Greer step from the far corridor, posture rigid, eyes scanning the room like a battlefield. His tailored shirt and tactical calm clashed with the chaos of backstage energy. Not a decision-maker, no—but the kind of man who made sure decisions got followed. Sebastian didn’t smile. No need to, Victor wasn’t around, Sebastian didn’t have to play nice.

“Mr. Blackwell and I saw an opportunity to make a weak card, stronger,” he said. “Thought you’d appreciate the initiative.”

Logan didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I must’ve missed the memo where you started doing matchmaking,” he replied, keeping his voice neutral, but his jaw had already locked.

“Things move fast at the top,” Greer said, his voice smooth but laced with quiet authority. “Viewer engagement's plateauing. New names keep the market guessing. Keeps the metrics healthy.”

It was all bullshit. Sebastian nor Victor cared about “viewer engagement” or “keeping the market guessing”. The cared about the bottom line and the SFL was too new for that to even reflect anything yet. The line between efficiency and threat was razor thin—and Sebastian walked it like a man who’d done this a hundred times in worse places than this.

Logan didn’t respond right away. He scanned the fight card again, knowing exactly what this was. His card—his card—had been stripped down to three carefully constructed fights. No filler. No chaos. Nothing left to chance. And now they were introducing a wild card behind his back.

"How long has this, whatever his name is been in our pocket?" Logan asked, the question deceptively casual.

Sebastian shrugged, the gesture too rehearsed to be genuine.

“Signed earlier this week. Wrestler from the regional circuit. Hungry. Marketable. Exactly what we need right now.”

Great. More of just what we need—wrestlers in a fighter’s world. Logan forced a smile, the kind he quickly learned to wear for corporate diplomacy.

“And the fact that untested wrestlers dropped into last-minute matchups tend to end up injured—or injuring others—didn't factor into your calculus?”

Greer didn't flinch, hands sliding into his pockets with practiced nonchalance. "All paperwork's cleared, medical's signed off. This isn't amateur hour, Logan." The subtle emphasis on his name carried volumes of subtext. "Trust the process, plus there’s handful of others signed."

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “There’s more?” Logan didn't trust the process. He trusted fighters he'd vetted, matchups he'd carefully crafted, and people who respected chain of command.

Sebastian gave the faintest nod, arms folding behind his back like a soldier delivering a report.

“Victor wants options,” he said flatly. “Victor thinks we’ve grown too dependent on known quantities. Injuries, contract disputes—hell, even walkouts—you know how fast a card can fall apart. This is about flexibility. Depth.”

“Right,” Logan muttered. “Because last-minute additions with zero scouting never go sideways.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t flicker. “I don’t do sloppy, Logan. You know that.”

“I don’t know that Sebastian, I haven’t seen you or heard from you in weeks. And now you drop in here with that news?”

A beat passed. Two men standing on opposite sides of the same battlefield—neither with a weapon drawn, but both very aware of where the knives were.

Logan exhaled through his nose. Slowly.

Sebastian interjected, his tone calm and composed. “You want your show to succeed. So do we. This is bigger than either of us.”

Logan accepted the clipboard, his fingers tightening until the edges bent slightly beneath the pressure.

Were these new guys just pawns? Or worse—did they already know the game they were playing?

He didn’t have time to find out.

Not properly. Not the way he liked to.

And that was the part that burned.

Logan stared at the schedule. Two hours until doors. Four until broadcast.

Do I even have time for this?

He ran the math in his head, shook it off with a quiet breath.

No. Not really.

Whatever Jax’s opponent was—or wasn’t—he’d have to leave that to chance. And trust that Jax Braddock could carry a match, even if his opponent didn’t belong in the cage with him.

Logan said nothing more as Sebastian turned and walked off, leaving the clipboard in his hands and a slow-burning weight in his chest. As if to make sure Logan understood his role in all this, Sebastian turned around and faced Logan.

“Don’t lose focus tonight,” he said quietly. “Victor’s watching. And so is everyone else.”

Logan watched him disappear down the corridor like smoke—leaving behind a chill that settled somewhere between his spine and stomach.

This wasn’t about one match.

It was about lines being crossed.

Control being tested.

Power slowly changing hands.

This show wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It was about resistance.

And whether or not he could still fight the current without drowning in it.

Someone had made a move.

Now it was his turn.

Local Time: 6:30 pm EST

A town car sat just off the loading dock, its polished exterior gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. It seemed out of place amidst the rugged surroundings—a landscape dominated by towering freight crates stacked like oversized building blocks, security gates that clanged with every gust of wind, and crew members bustling about, their arms full with heavy black cables. The car's sleek black body glistened, its custom rims catching the light at just the right angle. Through the tinted windows, the soft glow of the interior hinted at a world of luxury inside, a stark contrast to the gritty environment outside. The windows were so dark that they seemed to absorb any inquisitive stares from passersby, leaving only reflections of the chaotic scene around it. If Victor Blackwell intended to go unnoticed, this extravagant display certainly wasn't helping his cause.

To an experienced observer, it was unmistakably clear: someone significant was inside. A small crowd of fans had already gathered a short distance away, circling the car like moths drawn to a light. Most appeared to be in their early twenties, phones in hand, shifting between excitement and feigned indifference. But their eyes constantly flickered towards the backseat window.

They weren’t there for Victor or Sebastian.

They were hoping to catch a glimpse of someone else.

“Think that’s him?” one whispered, just loud enough to be heard. “That’s got to be him, right? That has to be Cade.”

Another leaned closer, squinting through the glass, trying to position their camera perfectly. Inside the car, Sebastian watched the scene unfold with a lack of interest. He didn’t move or reach for the window button. He just observed.

Victor’s gaze, however, remained fixed on the arena entrance.

He didn’t care about the fans. Not really.

Its tinted windows caught the spill of buildings lights glowing in the distance, casting faint reflections across the polished black exterior. Inside, the air was still—cool, quiet, expensive. The soft purr of the idling engine was the only sound, steady and low, like a machine waiting for instruction.

Victor Blackwell sat with the elegance of someone who had mastered the art of taking his time. His spine was straight as an arrow, and his charcoal suit bore the crisp lines of a recent pressing, each seam in perfect alignment. His face, was an enigma, his lips neither curving in a smile nor dipping in a frown, his eyes conveying a mix of calm patience and a hint of disappointment that seemed to be etched permanently into his features.

Next to him, Sebastian Greer sat in absolute silence—his back straight, eyes fixed ahead, hands placed neatly on his knees as if he had practiced the position in front of a mirror. He wore his suit with the meticulousness of a young man who had observed his father dress for battle each morning and aspired to appear just as invincible. The lapels were crisp, the tie snug, and his expression was as unyielding as stone. Every detail about him was refined, proper, and intentional.

Yet beneath the sharp tailoring and military-like stance, there was another layer—something that still seemed rehearsed. A young man in a grown man's attire, doing his utmost to make it fit. Victor didn't turn to look when he spoke.

"Any updates on the issue?"

Victor didn’t need to say the name. Sebastian already knew.

“Grizz,” Sebastian said, his tone even. “No sign of him. Security’s been on it every week—same routine, same checkpoints. Back entrances are covered, credential checks have been doubled.” He let out the faintest exhale. “Old bastard never figured out he could just buy a ticket.”

Victor let the silence settle.

“Still showing up?”

“Like clockwork,” Sebastian confirmed. “Doesn’t get past the lot. Just walks around. Stares at the building’s doors like it’s gonna open for him one day.”

Victor finally turned his head, just slightly. His gaze carried the weight of a man who didn’t deal in sentiment. “Desperation makes people romantic,” he said quietly. “Especially the washed-up ones.”

He adjusted his cufflink—silver, custom, engraved with the Peak Media insignia. It caught the low cabin light with a glint that felt deliberate.

“If he shows up tonight, I want it handled,” he continued. “Cleanly. No spectacle. The audience loves a martyr, and we’re not in the business of building one.”

Sebastian nodded once. “I’ll rotate someone off the floor, put extra eyes near concessions. If he even breathes near the building tonight, we’ll know.”

Victor's lips curled into a sharp, fleeting smile. “Good. If Grizz reconnects with Logan, then all bets are off.”

He let the words hang there, just long enough for their weight to settle. He turned his gaze back to the window, calm and calculated.

“Logan without Grizz is manageable. Predictable. But if you give him an ally? Someone who has a deep love and respect for the industry.” Victor exhaled through his nose. “Then we’re not just running a company anymore. We’re running damage control.”

Sebastian shot a glance at Victor. "When do you think you're going to head in?"

Victor leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight, and exhaled a tense breath. "When the time is right." His eyes pierced through the rain-splattered window, fixating on the building and the throng of fans huddled outside, undeterred as the relentless rain poured from the heavens.

Almost absently, Victor asked, “How’s Logan looking?”

A simple question. Almost casual.

Sebastian glanced at him sideways, reading the subtext with ease. Victor didn’t care about Logan Drake’s well-being. Not his stress, not his state of mind. What Victor wanted to know—without saying it—was if Logan was about to make them look weak.

“Frantic,” Sebastian said. “Focused. He’s doing everything he can to hold the seams together.”

Victor gave a faint nod, not of approval—just acknowledgment.

“Let’s hope that’s enough,” he murmured. “We have a brand to protect. And I don’t like cleaning up after dreamers.”

The glass of water still hadn’t been touched.

And neither had Logan’s leash.

Local Time: 6:45 pm EST

The sidewalk outside the Westchester County Center was lined with passion—fans in replica tees, vendors yelling over music, chants erupting like sparks in dry brush. The lights from the venue created distorted shadows on the pavement, gathering around the barricades and trash bins. It was pandemonium, but the good kind—the kind that smelled like popcorn, bootleg merch, and adrenaline.

And then came two figures walking toward it all like they belonged on the marquee. Street clothes, nothing flashy. But it wasn’t what they wore that stood out. It was what was on their faces.

Thick, bold face paint wrapped around their eyes and across their cheekbones—one in jagged streaks of different colors, the other a soft wash of silver and light blue. It looked somewhere between superhero cosplay and a third-period art class experiment.

They wore the paint like armor. Like a shield. Because if anyone saw who they really were, their careers—at least in their minds—would be over. Thunder walked with a practiced seriousness, scanning the venue like a man conducting recon. His eyes tracked the flow of foot traffic, guard rotations, staff entrances.

“Two security at the northeast dock,” he muttered with his hand partially covering his mouth. “Staggered positioning. No communication. That’s a breach point if we need it.”

Iceman was already drifting.

Not toward the back.

Toward the front entrance.

Toward the fans.

He eased into the general admission line behind a kid holding a hand-drawn sign that read:

Cade Mercer = Ratings.

Thunder blinked, turned, and stared like his partner had just walked into traffic.

“What are you doing?”

Iceman looked back casually. “Getting in line.”

There was a pause.

Thunder stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“We don’t need to stand in line, Ice. We’re—” Thunder stopped midsentence.

“I don’t have a ticket,” Thunder finished, his tone suddenly flat. “No badge. No credential. It's complicated.”

Iceman tilted his head. “Wait… you didn’t buy one?”

“I thought they’d escort us through the back,” Thunder replied. “Like usual.”

There was no usual. There never had been. But Thunder believed it anyway. Iceman blinked once, then slowly smiled.

“That’s why I bought two!” he said, pulling a second ticket from the inside pocket of his jacket like it was a winning hand in a poker game.

Thunder took it with a short nod, saying nothing, but his shoulders squared slightly. A tiny victory quietly claimed. A couple of fans a few feet up turned and squinted back at them.

“Wait, are those... wrestlers?”

“Looks like dudes who got rejected from a comic con,” the friend said, shrugging.

Neither Thunder nor Iceman reacted. Because they weren’t here to be recognized.

Not yet.

They moved forward in the line—two painted faces convinced they were legends in disguise. And maybe, in their own way, they were. Iceman glanced sideways as they neared the checkpoint, grin still plastered on his face.

“One day,” he said, “We’re gonna look back at this line… and realize this was the moment everything changed.”

Thunder nodded once. “Then let’s not be late.”

Local Time: 7:05 pm EST

The general admission line slithered around the parking lot like a bored serpent—slow, twitchy, impatient. Fans shuffled under umbrellas and rain jackets, using programs or merch bags to shield themselves from the cold drizzle that had suddenly returned. Some checked their phones. Others swapped predictions or held up signs already starting to wrinkle in the wet.

And near the back of the line, two men in damp hoodies stood awkwardly still. Their faces—painted in bold streaks of various colors—were mostly hidden beneath the cheap fabric of their sweatshirts, but their eyes darted constantly.

Thunder and Iceman weren’t trying to stand out. They were trying not to be noticed. Which was difficult when you looked like vigilantes who forgot their costumes at home.

“Keep your head down,” Thunder muttered. “We can’t risk exposure.”

Iceman nodded, his voice low. “Pretty sure the guy behind me recognized me. He’s been adjusting his hat for like five minutes straight.”

“That’s called fidgeting.” Thunder replied.

“Or signaling.” Iceman replied, his expression full of concern.

They stepped forward with the line. To the fans around them, they were just two weirdos. But to themselves? They were legends in hiding. Fugitives from fame. A story still waiting to be told.

That illusion shattered the moment Thunder caught sight of movement through the misting rain. A figure approached the building—not walking, but charging. Bare-chested in February. Long, greasy hair flailing like shredded banners in a hurricane. His oiled, tanned muscles shimmered in the parking lot lights, repelling raindrops like they feared him. The scent of cheap cologne and baby lotion hit the air like a warning shot.

“Hey,” Thunder whispered. “There’s Rage.”

Iceman squinted. “That is RageBreaker.”

They both stepped out of the line instinctively, half-jogging toward their old comrade. Then froze. The line moved up without them. A dad in a hoodie and cargo shorts slid into their old spot like a man claiming an abandoned seat at a concert. Thunder turned, motioned to reclaim their place. The dad didn’t even look up.

“Yeah, nah,” he muttered, one hand up like a crossing guard. Thunder deflated.

“Totally worth it,” Iceman said, still grinning.

They jogged through the drizzle, cutting through the VIP drop-off zone until they reached him. RageBreaker stood just outside the back doors, soaking wet and absolutely unbothered. His arms were spread like he was absorbing lightning. A single spotlight above the entrance caught his glistening chest like a stage cue.

“BROTHERS. OF. PAIN.” he bellowed.

He wrapped both of them in a coconut-scented bear hug that nearly knocked the breath out of Iceman.

“Thunder! Ice!” he shouted. “The Rage hath RETURNED.”

Iceman coughed mid-embrace. “What in the fruit snacks are you doing here, Rage?”

RageBreaker pulled back and struck a biceps pose so big it looked illegal in three states.

“RageBreaker got signed, baby! Put pen to paper. Spoke the promo of truth. Signed the contract of destiny.”

“You’re not from California, Rage,” Thunder said, ducking under his arm.

RageBreaker pointed to his own temple. “But the spirit of SoCal lives in me, bruh. It lives in me.”

The three of them strolled past security. One guard made a move to ask a question, but RageBreaker just pointed at his own chest like it answered everything. The guard blinked, nodded, and waved them through.

“You with him?” the second security guy asked.

Thunder straightened. “We’re together.”

Iceman added, “We’re family.”

They walked into the venue like conquering heroes, the warmth inside hitting their faces like a spotlight. Fans were nowhere near them, and no one was paying attention—but for a moment, it felt like the whole building was watching.

“I can’t believe we’re back together,” Iceman said, half-skip in his step.

“I’m not booked tonight,” RageBreaker replied. “But the second I heard my brother Ice was on the card… RageBreaker had to appear. In support. In spirit. In body. In glorrrryyyy.”

Thunder looked ahead, dead serious. “If things go sideways tonight, Rage and I will make our presence known.”

RageBreaker flexed so hard it looked painful. “Let the cage become the stage. And let the audience remember the name…”

He paused, waited for effect, then all three said it in unison:

“BROTHERS. OF. PAIN.”

They kept walking, dripping on the tile floor, leaving a trail of rain and misplaced confidence behind them. Whatever tonight had planned…They were ready to rewrite it. Whether the world was ready or not? That was a different story.

Local Time: 7:15pm EST

Jax Braddock hadn’t expected to be here tonight. When Logan announced the show was being cut from four hours to a hard two, Jax took it as a blessing. Network squeeze. PMG budget slash. Whatever the reason, he figured it meant a night off, and frankly, he needed it.

His body was carrying more mileage than it let on. His mind, more pressure than he admitted. Time off the card meant time to breathe—reset, recover, refocus. But that changed the moment the envelope showed up. PMG-branded. Cream-colored. Formal in that corporate way that made it feel like a summons.

Inside, a coach ticket from Massachusetts to New York. No surprise there. First class was for Cade Mercer. Maybe Titan. The rest of them got what they got. The kind of ticket where the seat barely reclined and you had to fight for elbow space with a toddler eating powdered donuts.

Tucked behind the ticket was a single slip of cardstock:

“Report to the Westchester County Center. Locker Room 2B. You’ve been assigned a bout.”

No details. No footage. Opponents name not recognized. And that was what made it dangerous.

Now, he sat in the far corner of the locker room, hunched forward on a bench, towel draped over his head like a monk before war. Sweat slicked across his back, despite the cold air blowing from the overhead vent. His breathing was slow. Steady. Intentional.

He didn’t need footage. Didn’t need tape.

He’d built his mystery opponent in his mind—tall, broad, maybe slower, but powerful. A walking glacier. Someone you didn’t overpower, you outmaneuvered. Chop him down. Take away the legs. Break the rhythm before it broke you. He was already running the blueprint, one mental rep at a time.

Until the door opened. The locker room shifted instantly.

The quiet hum of mental preparation gave way to the sharp slap of sneakers on tile, the zip of gym bags, and three voices crashing into the space like a high school hallway between periods.

Jax didn’t move. He just listened, towel still over his head.

“—and she goes, ‘Oh my god, are you Vanilla Ice?’” one of them laughed.

“She really said that?” another asked, incredulous.

“Swear to god,” the first replied. “Had me sign her pretzel bag. Kept on saying, ‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ the whole time.”

The room erupted in laughter. The kind that had no business echoing off locker room walls less than an hour before bell time. Jax blinked under the towel.

No way.

He peeked out.

There, standing like he belonged, was a guy with silver & blue face paint wrapped around his eyes, grinning like he just hit the lottery. Talking to two others like they were old friends at a fan convention.

He didn’t look like a threat.

He didn’t even look like a fighter.

He looked like someone who bought a mask from a vendor table and decided to play pretend.

Jax stared at him, stunned. And then, just loud enough to hear himself think:

“...No way that’s Iceman.”

He pulled the towel back over his head, let out a breath through his nose—sharp and slow.

“If it is, I gotta start all over.”

Because this wasn’t the glacier he’d been preparing to chip down.

This was something else entirely.

And that—made it dangerous in a whole new way.

Local Time: 7:29pm EST

The parking bay smelled like cold exhaust, rain-soaked concrete, and urgency. A camera dolly glided along a taped track, its wheels silent over the smooth surface. Lights had been rigged at staggered heights, reflecting off the wet pavement just enough to give the shot that cinematic, “big fight feel.”

A producer, headset wrapped tight, waved sharply toward a silver SUV idling near the loading dock.

“Alright, cue the driver… three seconds. And—position Cade by the second door, not the first. We need more depth when he steps out.”

Clayton Reed was already pacing beside him, jacket draped over his shoulders, dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose—not for style, but because he couldn’t see a damn thing without them. He didn’t wait for permission to chime in.

“Lower that back light. You’re washing out his face. You want mystery, not mugshot. And lose the low-angle tracking. Makes him look like a cartoon villain.”

The producer gave a tight, practiced smile. “We’re on a 45-second window here, Clayton. Can we maybe pick one adjustment at a time?”

Clayton turned toward the camera crew like a general inspecting his army. “The brand is mystique meets inevitability. Not afternoon soap opera. You want the crowd at home asking if he’s here to fight or to kill.”

Cade Mercer stood ten feet away, next to the open SUV door, arms folded, watching the exchange like a lion in a cage waiting for the zookeeper to get out of the way. His jaw ticked once. Then again. He hadn’t said a word since they told him they needed to “reshoot the walk.”

Now they were on take three.

Another adjustment.

Another note.

Another twenty-second delay.

Finally, he stepped forward—just enough to break the rhythm—and said, with clipped restraint:

“Can’t I just walk through the damn doors?”

The words landed with a thud. Both Clayton and the producer turned toward him at the same time. The producer, to his credit, kept his tone neutral. “Sorry, Cade. It’s a big moment on the PPV. We want to make sure it sells your arrival. It’s gotta feel… iconic.”

Cade didn’t respond.

He just nodded once. Like a man checking off a box in his head. The crew reset their positions. Lights were adjusted. The camera operator whispered something to his assistant and hit record again.

Clayton stepped back, arms crossed, glasses still perched above his nose. His smile wasn’t aimed at Cade. It was aimed at the moment. Because in Clayton’s mind, this was the moment. Arrival. Camera. Aura. Mythology.

And for Cade?

It was just more time wasted before the fight.

The SUV pulled away.

The camera rolled.

Cade took his first step toward the building’s doors, rain mist catching on his shoulders, jaw clenched just tight enough to show he was still listening—even if he wasn’t saying a word.

Local Time: 7:59pm EST

“Live feed begins in 60 seconds.”

The words came over Logan’s headset from the production truck parked outside the venue. Logan Drake sat hunched forward in the worn black production chair, elbows on his knees, headset clamped tight over his ears. His eyes were locked on the monitor. One finger hovered near the talkback button on the control board. This was it. This was his show now. No more hand-holding. No more corporate buffers.

The opening package was already playing for the viewers at home—slick cuts, dramatic music, hard stares from fighters under flashing lights. The same package rolled across the buildings screen, casting flickers of light and shadow across the crowd. The 2,000 in attendance roared with the anticipation of 20,000, but back in gorilla, the tension was surgical.

Tonight was his chance to prove—to Victor, to Sebastian, to everyone—that he could run this ship. Keep it on course. Keep it afloat. That Victor Blackwell wasn’t needed. That was the plan.

A shadowy figure stormed into his peripheral vision with an undeniable presence. A dark coat billowed ominously. Their posture was slick and commanding. Silver cufflinks gleamed fiercely under the stage lights, as if they were intentionally designed to capture every eye in the room. Logan's stomach twisted into knots, a wave of dread crashing over him.

Victor.

Now?

Of all the moments in the day—hell, all the seconds in this hour—he chose now to show up Victor didn’t say hello. He didn’t say good luck. He leaned slightly down, hands clasped in front of him like a disappointed school principal, and began talking—soft, direct, mechanical.

“You know the key difference between ambition and execution, Logan?”

Logan didn’t respond.

Victor went on.

“Ambition thinks it can run the ship. Execution actually sails it.”

Logan stared at the screen, jaw locked.

Victor smiled faintly. “Let’s just hope tonight, you don’t sink.”

Then came the noise.

Off to the side, from the curtain area, came a chorus of laughter, claps, and the unmistakable sound of someone loudly quoting their own nickname. Logan turned, irritation boiling behind his eyes.

Three men.

One in silver face paint. Another in jagged blue and black. The third shirtless, oiled, and flexing like a backup dancer in a forgotten VHS workout tape.

Thunder. Iceman. RageBreaker.

RageBreaker was doing wind sprints in place. Thunder adjusted his gloves like he was about to walk into a world title match. Iceman bounced on his heels, hyping himself up loud enough for everyone to hear.

Logan blinked.

“…What in the fuck is that” he said, not realizing he said it out loud.

Victor, of course, noticed.

“Oh, come now,” he said, full of mock sincerity. “Look at these guys, Logan. Look at the initiative. Showing up early… even when they some of them are not scheduled.”

The sarcasm was molasses thick. Logan’s eyes stayed on them—watching Iceman grin at the stagehand like he was signing autographs, Thunder nodding solemnly at no one, and RageBreaker trying to high-five a crew member who clearly had no idea who he was.

“They look ready, don’t they?” Victor added. “Hungry. Focused. Energetic. Honestly, I think we could be looking at the future of the main event slots.”

That did it.

Logan turned slightly, one hand lifting off his knee.

“You signed them?”

Victor didn’t blink. “I did. Surprised? No…no…no Sebastian did. Sebastian doesn’t do anything sloppy. Isn’t that what he told you?”

Logan didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He just looked back toward the screen as the package faded to black and the first strobe lights of the night cracked open the darkness of the arena.

Behind him, RageBreaker shouted, “LET THE ICE RISE!”

Thunder followed, “Brothers of Pain ride tonight!”

Iceman, still bouncing, added softly, “I’m gonna kill it. I feel it. I really feel it.”

Victor didn’t say another word.

He just smiled.

Because he didn’t have to drive the knife.

He’d already twisted it.