top of page

Kingdom Come - Contenders 2

CHAPTER 8


 


The thrumming of intrigue fluttered through the backstage area of the Hammerstein Ballroom, a living current that pulsed beneath the surface of everything. Logan Drake watched crew members move with practiced precision—adjusting lights, checking camera angles, confirming microphone placements—each person a component in the massive machine PMG had built. The taste of adrenaline filled Logan's mouth as he takes in deep breaths, preparing for what is to come. It is a bittersweet taste, a mix of excitement and nerves.

 

Logan ran through a mental checklist, something that he was now accustomed doing since the verbal lashing from Sebastian Greer at Strike Force. His fingers absently traced circles around his wrists, sitting on a worn leather bench near the production area. The vibration of his phone hacked through his meditation like a discordant note. The name on the screen made his stomach contract into a tight, familiar knot.

 

Victor Blackwell.

 

"Not now," Logan whispered to himself, a brief prayer to whatever gods watched over combat sport bookers. His thumb hovered over the screen before he surrendered to inevitability.

 

"Hello?" He kept his voice neutral, professional.

 

"Logan." Victor's voice oozed through the speaker, smooth as mercury and just as toxic—polished, confident, with the unmistakable undercurrent of a man used to getting his way. "Listen, we need to talk."

 

It was the first show that Victor or any of his PMG loyalists were not at. It was all on Logan tonight, finally. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing momentarily as he prepared for whatever new demand was coming. "Alright. Go ahead."

 

"I can't have another embarrassment like what happened with Titan at Strike Force Legends."

 

What had initially been a shocking upset—the kind that generated real buzz, authentic excitement—had slowly morphed into a corporate nightmare, a "branding inconsistency" in Victor's sterile terminology.

 

When did we stop caring about real moments? Logan wondered, the thought bitter in his mind. When did authenticity become a liability?

 

"Cade needs to hold onto the title," Victor continued, each word precisely calculated. "You know how important this is for the brand, right?"

 

Logan exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around his phone until he could feel the edges digging into his palm. There it was. The same corporate nonsense dressed up as concern. In Victor's world, people were assets, emotions were liabilities, and unpredictability was the enemy.

 

"Look, I get it," Logan said, keeping his voice measured despite the frustration building in his chest. "But this isn't pro wrestling, Victor. It's not scripted. I can't guarantee anything."

 

There was a pause, then a small chuckle from Victor—the kind of laugh that wasn't meant to express humor but to establish dominance. "I don't care. I didn't bring you in for maybes, Logan. I brought you in to get the job done."

 

Logan's jaw clenched so hard he could hear teeth grinding. The job. As if what they created was just another product.

 

"This isn't a movie, Victor," he said, struggling to keep the edge from his voice. "Cade wins or he doesn't. That's on him. I can prepare everything, but I can't control the outcome."

 

And isn't that the whole point? he thought. Isn't that why people watch? For something real in a world of fake?

 

"Spare me the speech," Victor interrupted, his voice seeping with the special kind of disdain reserved for creative types who dared to question business decisions. "You're a professional, Logan. You know what's at stake."

 

Yeah, I do. Logan's gaze drifted to the venue beyond the curtain, where fans would soon gather, seeking something authentic in an increasingly manufactured world. What was at stake wasn't just money or ratings—it was integrity. The soul of what he was wanting to build.

 

Victor sighed, the sound artificial through the phone's speaker. "Just handle it. No excuses. We can't afford another branding misstep."

 

Before Logan could form a response that wouldn't end with him being fired, the line went dead. He stared at the darkened screen, watching his reflection distort as his grip tightened.

 

No excuses. No missteps. The words echoed in his mind, mocking him. It was easy for Victor to make these demands from his glass-walled office, far removed from the controlled chaos of live production, from the sweat and blood and real emotion that made this show worth watching.

 

Logan huffed sharply and shoved his phone into his bag with enough force to make a nearby production assistant glance over nervously. The frustration burned beneath his skin, a familiar fire that had once driven him to create something special—now twisted into something else, something that felt dangerously close to resentment.

 

"Five minutes to pre-show, Mr. Drake," the production assistant said, clipboard clutched to her chest.

 

Logan nodded, rolling his shoulders back as he stood. Around him, the machine he was building had continued its relentless forward motion—lights being tested, sound levels checked, fighters warming up in their makeshift dressing rooms. Everything moving toward the moment when the cameras would go live and there would be no more room for doubt or compromise.

 

As he moved toward gorilla—the small, high-stress area just behind the curtain where producers and talent coordinate the final moments before a performer goes live—Logan felt the weight of Victor's expectations pressing against his back like an invisible hand. This wasn't wrestling. This wasn't about storytelling or image. This was about execution—about creating moments that felt real because they were real.


But to Victor? It was all the same. Numbers on a spreadsheet. Content to fill a timeslot. Product to sell to advertisers. The night hadn't even started yet, and Logan already felt like he was fighting a battle on two fronts—against the inevitable chaos of live production and against the corporate machine that was slowly squeezing the life out of his creation.

 

And the worst part?

 

He wasn't even sure which fight he could win anymore.


 

Live from the Hammerstein Ballroom

New York, New York, USA

7 pm - March 17


 


The screen fades in from black, revealing a sweeping shot of the Hammerstein Ballroom, a venue rich in wrestling history where champions have been made and defeated, was set to host the second Contenders event. The camera glides across the three thousand spectators who stand shoulder-to-shoulder, creating a wall of humanity where passion feels magnified rather than diminished by the venue's scale.


Every chant echoes against the ornate walls, transforming the ballroom into an acoustic chamber of anticipation. The ceiling's gilded details catch the moving lights, casting dramatic shadows that dance across the crowd's upturned faces. Here, in this compressed space, each roar of approval carries physical weight—you don't just hear the crowd, you feel them in your chest, in your bones.


A heavy stillness lingers through the building with a heady mixture of adrenaline, expectation, and raw hunger. This isn't the casual audience that fills corporate luxury boxes or comes for the social media moment—these are the devotees, the believers, the ones who understand that sometimes the most savage battles are fought in the closest quarters.


The camera finds the commentary desk positioned at the perfect vantage point, where Jonathan Marks and Dexter "Dex" Williams sit beneath a concentrated pool of light that separates them from the darkness beyond. The red indicator light on Camera One blinks to life, signaling their transition from observers to narrators of the violence to come.


Jonathan leans forward, his posture conveying both authority and reverence for the moment. His attire contrasts with the barely contained pandemonium that surrounds him, a visual reminder of the thin veneer of civilization that covers the primal nature of combat sports.


"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, his voice resonating with practiced precision that cuts through the ambient roar, "welcome to the second edition of Contenders!" His eyes gleam with the knowledge that history often writes itself in smaller rooms before echoing through arenas. "I'm Jonathan Marks, alongside my ever-opinionated partner, Dexter 'Dex' Williams."


Beside him, Dex adjusts his headset with casualness. Unlike Jonathan's polished professionalism, Dex radiates the hard-earned confidence of a man who has bled on canvas similar to the one before them. He leans back, his gaze sweeping the venue.


"Jonathan, I gotta be honest," Dex began, the roughness in his voice a testament to years of shouting above roaring crowds, "going from Madison Square Garden to the Hammerstein Ballroom is one hell of a change in scenery." His lips form into a knowing smile. "Let's not act like it's not noticeable."


Jonathan exhales briefly, his expression revealing a flicker of unguarded reaction before his broadcaster's composure returns. The unspoken reality of the promotion's scaling back hangs between them.


"You're not wrong, Dex," he acknowledges, refusing to insult the audience's intelligence with corporate spin. "Last week, fifteen thousand strong packed MSG to witness history. Tonight? Three thousand loyal fans in a much more—shall we say—intimate setting."


Dex's low chuckle carries a hint of danger, like the rumble before an avalanche. "Intimate's one way to put it." He leans forward, "I'd call it personal. This ain't a stadium spectacle; this is a fight hall." His eyes narrow, scanning the faces pressed against the barricades. "And you know what? I don't hate it. This kinda crowd? They don't just watch fights—they live 'em."


The camera captures Jonathan's subtle nod—the gesture of a man who recognizes the shift in narrative and embraces it rather than resisting.


"It's a different energy, no doubt," he agrees, his voice gaining momentum. "But one thing that hasn't changed? The stakes." A genuine intensity overtakes his professional demeanor. "Tonight, we've got three huge fights lined up, and you better believe every single competitor is looking to make their mark."


As he speaks, the house lights dim momentarily, focusing all attention on the cage at center stage—a modern gladiatorial arena gleaming under spotlights, waiting to contain the violence it was designed for. The throbbing intro music builds from a whisper to a thunderous crescendo, the bass so powerful it vibrates through the ancient floorboards beneath the audience's feet.


"Jonathan, I gotta tell ya," Dex smirks, leaning back in his chair as if settling in for a private conversation with millions watching, "it feels good knowing we actually have more than one fight this time. Thought I was about to start calling it Summit Talking League after last week."

 

The barb lands exactly as intended. Jonathan exhales sharply, his professional demeanor cracking just enough to reveal something of a genuine friendship beneath the on-air rivalry. He rolls his eyes but can't quite suppress the smile tugging at his lips.


"I knew you were going to bring that up," Jonathan counters, shaking his head slightly. "Look, it was a...unique night, but tonight, we make up for it!" His voice rises with renewed energy.


The screen transitions with cinematic precision to a polished match card graphic. The first matchup blazes across the screen in bold, commanding letters:

 

Julian St. James vs. Jax Braddock

 

Julian St. James appears in freeze-frame, his composed features masking the calculated violence he's capable of unleashing. His eyes seem to look through the camera, already visualizing his path to victory.

 

Jonathan's voice carries over the image, respectful and measured. "Julian St. James—disciplined, methodical, a student of combat. But tonight, he's got a serious challenge in Jax Braddock, a man known for breaking wills inside that cage."

 

Dex leans into his role as the voice of brutal honesty, his words carving through the promotional polish.

 

"Look, St. James is a technician, no doubt," he says, his tone suggesting he's about to deliver the real truth, "but Braddock? Braddock fights like a damn wrecking ball. He doesn't care about footwork or strategy—he just smashes through people. This one's gonna be a clash of styles."

 

The production shifts seamlessly to the second matchup graphic, the visual storytelling deliberate and precise:

 

Matthew vs. Happy Jack

 

Matthew's portrait captures his essence—stoic strength and quiet determination radiating from eyes that have seen countless battles. The image dissolves to Happy Jack's unsettling grin, his wild eyes boring into the camera with an intensity that suggests unpredictability and barely contained chaos.

 

"Then we have Matthew versus the unpredictable enigma known as Happy Jack," Jonathan says, his professional tone unable to completely mask the intrigue in his voice.

 

Dex scoffs, unable to contain his genuine assessment. "Unpredictable? That's one way to put it. The guy's a damn lunatic, Jonathan." His voice drops slightly, adding weight to his words. "I've seen a lot of fighters in my day, but Happy Jack? He's a different kind of animal."

 

The main event graphic appears with dramatic flair, announcing the night's centerpiece:

 

Main Event - Glenn Sterling vs. Colton Hayes

 

Colton Hayes image fills the screen—fists clenched, body coiled like a spring against a backdrop of shimmering arena lights. The shot transitions to Glenn Sterling, his trademark hair and smile a perfect encapsulation of his character—part showman, part predator, all charisma.

 

Jonathan's voice rises slightly, the mark of a broadcaster who knows when the moment demands gravitas. "And in our main event, Glenn Sterling, one of the most technically & powerful sound fighters in SFL, goes one-on-one with Colton Hayes—a man who once dominated the industry and is still looking to solidify his spot as one of the best."

 

Dex leans forward, eager to inject his unfiltered perspective. "Hayes is a vet, but let's be real—Sterling's seen it all. The guy's got experience and a gas tank that just won't quit." His voice carries the conviction of someone who believes he's making a prediction rather than an observation. "If Hayes isn't careful, he's gonna get humbled in that cage, by a wrestler of all people."

 

The camera returns to the commentary team, capturing Jonathan as he leans toward the audience, his body language signaling the climax of their introduction.

 

"Three huge fights tonight, and it all starts—right after this!" The excitement in his voice is real, genuine. "Don't go anywhere, because when we come back, it's Julian St. James versus Jax Braddock!"

 

The scene fades to black, not as an ending but as a promise—a theatrical pause before the real drama begins. In the darkness, the crowd's anticipation hangs in the air, an invisible force that will erupt once again when the lights return.


 


The locker room door crashed open with theatrical violence, steel connecting with concrete in a collision that reverberated through the space like a gunshot. Heads snapped toward the disturbance, conversations faltering mid-sentence as Glenn Sterling materialized in the doorway, framed like the protagonist in his own personal blockbuster.


His entrance wasn't just an arrival—it was a performance. Every aspect of his presentation had been meticulously crafted, from the immaculate three-piece suit that hugged his frame to the calculated swagger in his stride. His smile—too wide, too practiced, too perfect—stretched across his face with the polished insincerity of a politician seeking reelection.


"Gentlemen!" Glenn's voice boomed through the space, each syllable delivered with the projection of a stage actor playing to the back row. "You boys don't mind if Viv is here, right?"


He gestured with theatrical flourish toward the doorway, where Vivian Sterling stood with composed elegance. Her striking features remained perfectly arranged in an expression of detached observation, the stillness of her posture creating a stark contrast to her husband's animated presence. Her eyes—intelligent, assessing—swept across the room, cataloging reactions without revealing her own thoughts.


Glenn didn't pause for the courtesy of a response, steamrolling forward as he always did. "Not like she has eyes for any of you, not when Glenn Sterling is in the building." His laughter erupted, bouncing off the concrete walls—a jarring sound that demanded acknowledgment rather than inviting participation.


Look at me. Look at me. Always look at me.


Across the room, Colton Hayes sat on a bench, thoughtfully lacing his boots with the focused precision of a man preparing for battle. His movements were economical, purposeful, each pull of the laces tightened with practiced fingers that had performed this ritual countless times across two decades in the business. His expression betrayed nothing—not irritation at the interruption, not anticipation of the match ahead, not acknowledgment of the hurricane of ego that had just blown into the shared space.


He kept his head down, eyes focused on his task, determined to maintain the bubble of concentration he had carefully constructed. The match against Glenn loomed later that evening, and Colton had been in the business long enough to know that mental preparation was as crucial as physical warmups.


But Glenn Sterling had built a career on forcing his way into spaces—physical and psychological—where he wasn't invited.


The moment his eyes located Colton in the corner, his entire demeanor shifted subtly. His posture straightened almost imperceptibly, chin lifting a fraction of an inch, smirk sharpening at the edges. Like a predator that had just identified its prey, Glenn's focus narrowed, the room and its other occupants fading into irrelevance.


He sauntered across the concrete floor, adjusting his sleeves with exaggerated nonchalance—a peacock fanning its feathers before confrontation. When he spoke again, his voice had transformed, dropping to a volume meant only for Colton despite being perfectly audible to everyone present.


"Well, look who it is..." Glenn tilted his head with mock curiosity, as if Colton's presence was an unexpected surprise rather than the scheduled opponent he'd been preparing to face. "The man who still thinks he belongs in the same breath as Glenn Sterling."


Colton exhaled slowly through his nose, a controlled release of breath that revealed nothing of his internal state. His fingers never faltered in their task, continuing to lace his boots with the same methodical precision. The lack of response was deliberate—a veteran's understanding that engagement was precisely what Glenn sought.


Not gonna give you what you want. Not until the bell rings.


Glenn took another step closer, invading the invisible boundary of personal space. His voice carried a sharper edge now, the false congeniality giving way to something more pointed. "You ready to get humiliated tonight, Hayes? You and I both know that last time? That was a fluke."


The accusation hovered in the air, met with continued silence. Colton remained motionless, focus unwavering, as if Glenn were speaking a language he couldn't understand.


A flicker of genuine irritation crossed Glenn's face, cracking the performance momentarily. The corner of his mouth twitched downward before he reasserted control, smoothing his expression back into calculated arrogance. Being ignored was the one response his ego couldn't process—the spotlight diverted was a personal offense.


His tactics shifted with practiced flexibility, expression softening into exaggerated sympathy. His voice dripped with insincere concern, each word carefully chosen for maximum impact.


"I get it, though. You're slowing down, Hayes. You feel it, don't you? The years stacking up, creeping into your bones." He paused, allowing the jab to sink in before continuing. "But me?" Glenn spread his arms wide in a gesture that invited appreciation of his entire being. "I'm still quick. Still nimble."


He let the words linger for a calculated beat, his gaze sliding sideways toward Vivian, who remained perfectly still at the edge of the confrontation. Her expression revealed nothing—not embarrassment, not amusement, not irritation—a masterclass in neutrality.


Glenn's smirk deepened, voice dropping to an insinuating purr. "And big... and powerful... in all the correct areas."


The implication landed in the space between them, crude and deliberate. Vivian's expression never wavered, her composure absolute in the face of her husband's juvenile provocation.


From Colton's direction came an unexpected sound—a sharp, singular chuckle. Not the reaction of amusement, but rather the sound of a man who recognized exactly what was happening and found it pathetically transparent. The noise contained decades of having seen it all before, of having weathered storms far more intimidating than Glenn Sterling's performative masculinity.


Finally, Colton looked up.


His gaze locked onto Glenn's with the precision of a sniper finding his target. The weariness of moments before had vanished, replaced by a quiet amusement that danced in his eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted in a subtle smirk that carried more genuine confidence than all of Glenn's theatrical posturing combined.


"Your momma know you talk like that?"


The oldest line in the book and the transformation was instantaneous and complete. Glenn's carefully constructed façade shattered like glass, revealing something raw and genuine beneath the polished exterior. His shoulders squared, jaw clenching so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out in stark relief. The playful arrogance evaporated, replaced by a flash of authentic anger that turned his eyes to flint.


"You don't bring my momma into this, Hayes."


The voice that emerged was stripped of performance—no third-person references, no theatrical projection, just the naked edge of a man who's carefully positioned button had been pushed with surgical precision.


There you are, Colton thought, recognizing the flash of authenticity beneath the carefully constructed character. That's who I'll be fighting tonight. Not the persona. The man.


Colton tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into something that bordered on pity—the look of someone who had just confirmed a long-held theory. He offered no verbal follow-up, letting his expression speak volumes, silently daring Glenn to continue down this path.


For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, violence seemed imminent. Glenn's fingers flexed at his sides, curling halfway into fists before straightening again. His breathing quickened, nostrils flaring with each intake of air. Then, with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to defusing volatile situations, Vivian moved.


She stepped forward without hurry, closing the distance between herself and her husband. Her hand extended with casual precision, slender fingers wrapping around Glenn's wrist with a grip that appeared gentle but carried unmistakable authority. She didn't yank him backward or create a scene—she simply redirected his physical presence with subtle efficiency.


The touch acted like a circuit breaker, interrupting the current of rage before it could fully discharge. Glenn blinked rapidly, awareness returning to his features as he consciously reassembled his carefully crafted persona. A forced chuckle escaped him—a sound that attempted nonchalance but landed closer to embarrassment.


"See you in the cage, Hayes."


The words emerged as a parting shot, an attempt to salvage dignity from a confrontation that had veered wildly off his intended script. But the tension in his jaw betrayed the lingering impact of the exchange, the crack in his confidence visible to anyone truly looking.


Vivian guided him toward the exit with the practiced ease of someone who had performed this exact maneuver countless times before. Her expression remained unreadable, but something in the set of her shoulders suggested resignation rather than surprise.


Colton remained seated, watching their retreat with the quiet assessment of a veteran who understood the psychology of the business as intimately as its physical demands. The smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth, not in mockery but in recognition of a tactical advantage gained without ever leaving his seat.


In seeking to establish dominance, Glenn had revealed vulnerability. In attempting to get inside Colton's head, he had instead opened a window into his own. The advantage had shifted before either man had set foot in the ring—a preliminary bout decided in the space of a few charged words.


If Glenn Sterling was looking for an edge tonight, he just lost it. And judging by the slight nod of Colton's head as the door closed behind the Sterlings, both men knew it.


 

Julian St. James vs. Jax Braddock




Jonathan Marks adjusted his headset as the production switched back to the cage, the red light on Camera One signaling they were live. He leaned forward slightly, his posture conveying both professionalism and genuine excitement.


"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back!" His voice bared the weight of ceremony without losing its natural warmth. "We're kicking things off with a collision of styles—Julian St. James, the self-proclaimed superior technician, versus Jax Braddock, a man who doesn't fight to win—he fights to break people."


"Jon, this ain't just a fight—it's a culture clash," Dex remarked, his voice rough with the blunt honesty that had made him a social media favorite. He was still the new guy at the commentary table, but fans gravitated toward his no-nonsense, no-corporate-filter approach—just a man calling it exactly as he saw it.


"On one side, you've got St. James—the 'sovereign of technique' or whatever he calls himself, all finesse, all precision. On the other? You got Jax Braddock." Dex's eyes gleamed with appreciation. "A man who drinks his weight in whiskey, throws hands like he's in a back-alley brawl, and doesn't care how pretty his punches look. This is about as pure a fight as you're gonna get—Harvard versus the school of hard knocks."


“I’ve heard Jax is kicking that whiskey habit” Jonathan quickly added.


“Well good for him, more for me.” Dex countered.


A single spotlight pierced the blackness, finding Danny Diaz at center cage. His suit absorbed the light, transforming him from mere announcer to master of ceremonies.

 

Diaz stood perfectly still, savoring the moment of collective expectation before lifting the microphone to his lips. When he inhaled, the sound carried through the speakers—a deliberate pause that made every eye in the building focus on him.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen..." His voice resonated against the ornate ceiling, bouncing back amplified and transformed. "Our first contest is scheduled for one fall!"


A ripple moved through the crowd—a new call-and-response ritual of combat sports. "ONE FALL!" they shouted back in unison; a new tradition being born.

 

The production booth triggered a cascade of imperial purple lights that bathed the entrance ramp in royal luminescence. Music swelled from the speakers. Diaz's posture straightened, his chin lifting as he continued: "Introducing first, accompanied to the cage by Mr. Price... fighting out of Weston, Massachusetts... standing six-foot-two, weighing in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds... he is 'The Sovereign'... JUUULIAN ST. JAMES!"

The curtain parted with theatrical slowness, revealing Julian St. James standing motionless in the entrance portal. His gaze swept across the venue with cold calculation, mentally measuring the dimensions of what he considered his rightful domain. Behind him, barely visible in the manufactured twilight, stood Mr. Price.


Predictable, Julian thought as the first wave of boos washed over him. They always react this way to their betters. He began his procession down the ramp, each footfall placed with balletic precision. His posture remained immaculate—spine straight, shoulders squared, chin elevated just enough to suggest looking down upon the world without appearing cartoonishly haughty. Every movement had been practiced to perfection, a physical manifestation of controlled superiority.


The crowd's disapproval intensified, voices merging into a wall of sound that physically pressed against his skin. Julian allowed the corner of his mouth to curl upward—not a smile, but a knowing acknowledgment. Their hatred was simply confirmation of his elevation above them.


Let them scream, he thought, maintaining his measured pace. The peasants always fear what they cannot understand. Mr. Price moved ahead as they reached the cage, his movements economical and purposeful. He ascended the steel steps and held the door open, his eyes never meeting Julian's—not from subservience, but from the comfortable familiarity of a partnership built on mutual understanding.


Julian entered the cage with the same composed arrogance that carried him down the ramp. He moved to the center, extending his arms slightly outward with palms upturned—a gesture that simultaneously invited and mocked the audience's hostility.


"You can say what you want about Julian St. James," Jonathan Marks observed from the commentary desk, leaning forward with genuine fascination, "but the man is composed. Calculated. Every step he takes is measured, every movement a page from a playbook that only he understands."

 

Dex Williams shook his head, his expression conveying decades of hard-earned combat wisdom. "Yeah, real fascinating, Jon. Except none of that means a damn thing when you're locked inside a cage with a guy who just wants to beat the hell outta you."

 

Julian retreated to his corner as Mr. Price whispered final instructions. The voice was barely audible above the crowd noise, but Julian caught the essential message.

 

"Remember—he'll come charging like a bull. Let him exhaust himself against your defense, then dismantle him systematically. Show them the difference between a fighter and a sovereign."


Julian nodded once—a nearly imperceptible movement. He didn't need reminding. He had studied Braddock's fights, dissected his tendencies, identified his weaknesses. The outcome was predetermined in Julian's mind; the only variable was how much punishment he would inflict before ending it.


The orchestral grandeur shattered without warning. The speakers erupted with distorted guitars and pounding drums—the sonic equivalent of a barroom brawl erupting during a symphony. The abrupt transition felt deliberately transgressive, the musical embodiment of someone spitting on polished marble.

 

Diaz's voice shifted to match the new energy, gravel entering his typically smooth delivery: "And his opponent... fighting out of Bakersfield, California... standing five-foot-eleven, weighing in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds... he is 'Mad Dog'... JAAAX BRADDOOOOCK!"


The curtain didn't just open—it was violently shoved aside as Jax Braddock erupted into view. Where Julian had appeared with practiced poise, Jax emerged like a force of nature—raw, unfiltered, dangerous. His body language screamed aggression: shoulders hunched forward, neck muscles corded with tension, eyes locked on the cage with predatory focus.


Time to rip the crown off this pretender's head, Jax thought, the roar of the crowd feeding something primal inside him. He bounced on the balls of his feet, the excess energy making stillness impossible. Every fiber of his being seemed charged with electrical current, muscles twitching beneath skin marked with the evidence of battles won and lost. The crowd's reaction transformed immediately—boos mingling with cheers in a complex soundscape that matched Jax's chaotic presence.


"There's my guy," Dex Williams said, a grin spreading across his weathered features. "No theatrics, no grand speeches—just a guy who woke up this morning ready to knock somebody's teeth down their throat. That's what I respect."


Jax discharged a stream of saliva onto the entrance ramp—a deliberate desecration of the path Julian had walked moments before. A cameraman attempting to capture his advance stepped too close, momentarily blocking his trajectory toward the cage. Without breaking stride, Jax shoved him aside with casual disregard, his focus never wavering from his target.


Get out of my way. Nothing stands between me and that cage tonight.


Reaching the octagon, he bounced impatiently while the door was opened, loosening his shoulders with circular motions. His palms slammed against the steel mesh with explosive force, the metallic reverberation cutting through the music like a declaration of war.


Once inside, Jax eliminated the neutral space between them with purposeful strides, bringing himself chest-to-chest with Julian before Jason McCarthy could intervene. He wanted to feel Julian's breath, see the microscopic tells of fear in his eyes, establish dominance through proximity alone.

 

"Braddock is already invading Julian's space!" Jonathan Marks exclaimed. "This is a psychological war before the fight has even started!"

 

Julian didn't flinch—didn't even blink. The only response was a subtle elevation of one eyebrow and the slight curl of his lip into that infuriating smirk. The complete lack of reaction hit Jax like a physical blow, momentarily confusing his anger.


Nothing? Not even a flinch? Good. I'll enjoy breaking that mask piece by piece.


Jason McCarthy inserted himself between them with practiced efficiency, his weathered hand pressed firmly against Jax's sternum. His voice carried the quiet authority of a man accustomed to controlling volatile situations.


"Save it for the bell."


McCarthy's arm rose, slicing through the tension-filled air.


DING! DING! DING!


The moment the bell's resonance filled the building, Jax Braddock exploded from his corner with volcanic fury. There was no feeling-out process, no tactical circling—just pure, unfiltered aggression channeled into a barrage of strikes. A right hook whistled through the air with enough force to separate consciousness from body. A left cross followed, aimed not to score points but to shatter bone. A wild haymaker arced toward St. James's temple, carrying the full weight of Braddock's considerable frame behind it.


"Braddock wasting absolutely no time!" Jonathan exclaimed, his voice rising with the crowd's. "He's turning this into a street fight from the opening bell!"


Julian navigated the onslaught with balletic precision, each movement economical and purposeful. He ducked the hook with millimeters to spare, the displaced air ruffling his immaculately styled hair. The cross was met with a subtle sidestep that left Braddock punching shadows. The haymaker sailed harmlessly over a perfectly timed roll, leaving Jax momentarily overextended.


"Julian's trying to avoid the firefight," Jonathan noted, tension evident in his voice. "Smart tactical approach, but he won't be able to run forever in a cage this size."


Dex's response carried the knowing tone of a man who had been in similar situations. "Technique's great, but at some point, you gotta stand and trade. St. James better have a plan beyond 'don't get hit,' or this is gonna get ugly quick."


As if summoned by the commentary, the inevitable collision occurred. Jax feinted with his left—a movement subtle enough to seem out of character for the brawler—drawing Julian just slightly off his perfect defensive alignment. In that fractional opening, Braddock crashed forward with explosive power, driving his shoulder into St. James's midsection in a devastating Mad Dog Takedown.


"There it is!" Dex bellowed as the impact reverberated through the cage, steel mesh rattling against its frame. "Straight into the cage wall! Jax ain't here for a wrestling match—he's here for a fight!"


The crowd surged to their feet as Julian's back arched in pain, his composed façade cracking momentarily as Braddock pinned him against the unyielding steel. Without pause, Jax unleashed a series of vicious hammer fists, each one targeting St. James's exposed ribs with savage precision.


McCarthy hovered nearby, his experienced eyes evaluating Julian's defensive posture. Despite the assault, St. James maintained his composure, arms tucked tight against his body, torso twisted to minimize the damage—a technician even in crisis.


With the sudden precision of a striking viper, Julian countered. His hands shot out, capturing Braddock's wrist in a textbook grip. With a twist that demonstrated years of technical training, he reversed their positions, using Braddock's own momentum against him. In one fluid sequence, he swept Jax's legs from beneath him and transitioned seamlessly into a pinning combination.


"Beautiful technical reversal!" Jonathan called out, genuine admiration in his voice. "Julian showing why he calls himself the Sovereign!"


McCarthy dropped to the mat, hand slapping the canvas.


ONE! TWO—


With a roar that seemed to shake the foundations of the ballroom, Jax powered out of the pin. His face contorted with effort as he literally launched Julian off him, sending the technician tumbling backward.


"Julian trying to steal it early, but c'mon!" Dex scoffed, a grin evident in his voice. "You think Jax is going down that easy? That man bench presses small cars for fun!"


Both men scrambled to their feet, but Julian reached vertical first. As Jax surged upward, St. James met him with a European uppercut that snapped Braddock's head back, the crack of impact audible even over the crowd's reaction. Before Jax could recover, another uppercut landed. Then another. Each strike delivered with clinical precision to the same spot, methodically accumulating damage.


Julian took a calculated step back, his eyes cold as he measured his target. The crowd recognized the setup, a ripple of anticipation spreading through the stands as St. James prepared his signature Royal Dismissal—a spinning backfist designed to separate opponents from their senses.


But Jax had done his homework.


As Julian's arm whipped around, Braddock ducked beneath it with surprising agility for a man of his size. The momentum of the missed strike left Julian momentarily exposed, and Jax capitalized with veteran instinct. His fist drove upward into St. James's ribs with devastating force—the Bakersfield Bomb landing with sickening impact.


Julian crumpled to one knee, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection, eyes widening in genuine pain. For the first time in the match, uncertainty flickered across his aristocratic features.


Jax, sensing the shift in momentum, pounced without mercy. He grabbed a fistful of Julian's perfectly styled hair, yanked him upright, and unleashed a Barroom Uppercut that connected with jaw-rattling force. St. James dropped as if his strings had been cut, collapsing onto the canvas in an undignified heap that contrasted sharply with his carefully cultivated image.


Braddock threw himself into a cover, his massive frame pinning Julian to the mat.


ONE! TWO!


At the last possible moment, Julian's shoulder lifted from the canvas—not with power but with the desperate, instinctive will of a man refusing to accept defeat.


The intimate confines of the Hammerstein Ballroom amplified the crowd's reaction, their collective voice washing over the combatants like a physical force. The smaller venue transformed what might have been just another near-fall into something that felt momentous, immediate.


Jax pushed himself up, frustration evident as he ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. A ragged exhale escaped him as he reached down to drag Julian back to a vertical base. The technical master hung limply in his grasp, feet unsteady beneath him.


With a grunt of effort, Braddock hooked an arm over Julian's shoulder, positioning for a suplex that would drive St. James's spine into the unforgiving canvas. He lifted—


Only to feel Julian's center of gravity shift unexpectedly. The suplex was blocked with textbook defensive technique, Julian's body positioned to counter the leverage.


Undeterred, Jax adjusted and attempted again—only to be thwarted once more by Julian's superior understanding of biomechanics and weight distribution.


"Jax trying to muscle through, but Julian's technical knowledge is saving him here!" Jonathan observed, the admiration in his voice undeniable despite his professional neutrality.


Before Jax could attempt a third time, Julian executed a lightning-quick counter. He wrenched Braddock's arm into a standing wristlock, creating a momentary opening that he exploited with the Superior Sweep—a leg trip executed with such fluid precision that it seemed almost gentle despite its effectiveness.


As Jax toppled, Julian maintained control of the arm, using it to position Braddock for a pinning predicament that maximized pressure on the shoulder joint.


ONE! TWO!—


Jax kicked out with such force that both men were propelled back to their feet, separated by the momentum of the escape.


They stood facing each other, the toll of battle evident on both. Jax's chest heaved with exertion, sweat cascading down his torso in rivulets that glistened under the arena lights. A bruise was forming along his jawline where Julian's uppercuts had connected. Julian, meanwhile, maintained his composure despite a split lip that leaked crimson onto his chin. The faintest hint of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth—the expression of a man who recognized that the tide was turning in his favor.


"Look at Julian's eyes," Dex noted, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial level. "He sees it. Braddock's starting to slow down, and that's when a technician like St. James becomes deadliest."


The next sequence unfolded with cinematic quickness. Jax, perhaps sensing his cardio beginning to flag, charged forward with desperate intensity—a bull making one final rush at the matador. Julian sidestepped with balletic grace, pirouetting away from danger before executing a perfect drop-toe hold that sent Braddock crashing face-first into the unforgiving mat.


He rose to his feet deliberately, taking his time as he surveyed his handiwork. With methodical slowness, he ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it back into place despite the exertion of the match. His eyes never left Braddock's prone form, something almost like pity flickering across his aristocratic features—the condescending mercy of a superior being observing a lesser creature's struggles.


"What is Julian doing?" Jonathan questioned, genuine confusion in his voice. "He had Braddock dead to rights there!"


Dex's response carried the weight of understanding. "He's not just looking to win, Jon. He's looking to make a statement. This isn't about a victory—it's about establishing dominance."


With the calculated precision of a surgeon, Julian grasped Jax's ankles. Each movement that followed was executed with textbook perfection—stepping through the legs, crossing them at precisely the correct angle, adjusting his grip for maximum leverage. When he leaned back, arching his spine to apply crushing pressure to Braddock's already taxed lower back, the crowd collectively gasped in recognition.


The Sovereign Stretch—Julian's high-angle Texas Cloverleaf submission—was locked in with inescapable precision.


As Jax's face contorted in agony, Julian twisted at the waist, his cold gaze sweeping over the audience. "LOOK AT HIM!" he bellowed, his cultured voice dripping with superiority. The command carried the weight of a monarch addressing peasants, demanding they witness the consequence of challenging his reign.


Braddock's hand hovered above the mat, fingers twitching as he fought against the inevitable. The crowd's energy surged, a wave of sound that seemed to physically press against both competitors.


"Tap."


The word wasn't spoken—it was a collective thought that filled the Hammerstein Ballroom, a psychic command issued by three thousand voices in unison.


"Tap."


Jax's face was a mask of pain, pride warring with physical reality as the submission tightened incrementally.


"TAP."


With a final, defiant roar, Jax slammed his palm against the canvas—not in surrender, but in acknowledgment that this battle, at least, had been lost.


DING! DING! DING!


"And just like that, Julian St. James has won this fight!" Jonathan Marks called, his voice balanced perfectly between excitement for the victory and respect for both competitors' efforts.


Even in triumph, Julian maintained his character. He held the submission for several beats longer than necessary, his eyes closed as if savoring the moment, before finally releasing his grip with obvious reluctance. He rolled to his feet and straightened his posture, adjusting the tape on his wrists as if he had completed nothing more strenuous than a light workout.


McCarthy raised his hand in victory, but Julian barely acknowledged the gesture, his attention already elsewhere—perhaps on future conquests, perhaps on establishing his place in the Summit Fighting League hierarchy.


Across the cage, Jax Braddock rolled onto his back, chest heaving as oxygen returned to his depleted lungs. Pain radiated through his lower body, but his expression held no shame, no embarrassment. He had brought everything in his considerable arsenal—power, aggression, fighting spirit—and forced a self-proclaimed technical master to reach deep into his own reserves. In defeat, there was still honor.


Julian stood at the center of the cage, his posture immaculate despite the rigors of combat. His gaze swept across the venue—not seeking approval or acknowledgment, but surveying what he clearly viewed as his rightful domain.


Winner: Julian St. James via submission


 


The heavy thud of boots against concrete rang through the poorly illuminated hallway as Julian St. James made his way toward the locker room. His body carried the weight of his battle with Jax Braddock—each step a testament to the war waged minutes earlier in the cage. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, mapping a crimson trail down his temple while sweat glistened across his bruised frame. Despite the pain radiating through him, Julian's posture remained impeccable—spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted. Even after battle, dignity was non-negotiable.

 

At his side walked Mr. Price, his always present shadow. His hand rested supportively on Julian's elbow, his expression a practiced mask of neutrality that couldn't quite conceal the concern in his eyes.

 

Almost there, Julian thought, drawing a slow, measured breath. Just need to regroup, recenter, rebuild.

 

His locker awaited—his private corner of order amid the bedlam of fight night. A place where control wasn't something to be fought for but something that simply existed, like gravity.

 

Then he saw it.

 

His locker stood in ruins—metal doors wrenched from hinges, hanging at awkward angles. Inside, the carefully organized world Julian had created lay destroyed. His meticulously folded dress shirts—imported Egyptian cotton, custom-tailored—had been shredded, the tatters scattered across the floor like discarded trash. His Italian leather loafers sat scuffed and separated, one perched mockingly atop a bench, the other half-buried beneath torn clothing.

 

Julian stopped dead, his body going rigid. His fingers curled slowly into fists, nails biting into palms as he forced down the volcanic surge of rage threatening to erupt. He could feel Mr. Price tense beside him, preparing for whatever came next.

 

A soft, childlike giggle floated through the air. Julian's eyes snapped toward the sound, narrowing dangerously. Sitting casually on a nearby bench, slowly lacing up his boots with exaggerated focus, was Happy Jack. His lips curled into a twisted smirk as he rocked slightly in place, humming tunelessly to himself as if completely alone.

 

Julian's glacial stare could have frozen hellfire, but Happy Jack merely looked up, his eyes widening with theatrical innocence. He held his hands up in mock surrender, feigning shock and confusion while barely contained laughter bubbled beneath the surface, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

 

"Wasn't me," Happy Jack said, voice pitched high with affected sincerity. "No idea who did it." His grin widened as he offered a dramatic shrug, as if Julian's violated sanctuary were no more significant than a spilled drink.

 

Mr. Price shifted his weight, his hand tightening imperceptibly on Julian's arm—a silent warning, a reminder of what was at stake. But Julian St. James hadn't earned his reputation by losing control. Years of discipline hadn't been forged just to shatter at the first real test.

 

He tapped his thumb against each fingertip in sequence—a method Mr. Price had drilled into him for high-pressure moments. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Again. With purposeful slowness, he squared his shoulders and adjusted the torn cuff of his sleeve, his movements those of a man preparing for a board meeting rather than contemplating violence.

 

When he spoke, his voice emerged calm but charged with unmistakable authority, filling the room with quiet power. "It appears my belongings were... touched while I was away fighting." Each word was delivered with precision, a verbal scalpel cutting through Happy Jack's antics.

 

The locker room wasn't empty—other fighters' entourages moved about the periphery, pretending not to watch—but only one other fighter of note occupied the space. Matthew stood silently in the corner, his expression unreadable, body still as stone. Without acknowledging the escalating tension, he rose to his feet and walked toward the exit, heading for his scheduled match with Happy Jack. The door swung shut behind him with quiet finality—his neutrality its own kind of statement.

 

Happy Jack followed Matthew's departure with his eyes before returning his unsettling gaze to Julian. Now fully laced up, he rose to his feet, nodding with exaggerated seriousness, his voice suddenly stripped of its manic energy.

 

"Well, I guess that just leaves me then." His lips smacked together wetly before curling back into that infuriating smirk.


Julian repeated himself, now focusing his attention solely on Happy Jack, “it appears my belongings were touched while I was away fighting."


"Why do you say that?" The giggle that followed bubbled up from somewhere deep and disturbing, sending an involuntary shiver through the room.

 

He wants a reaction. He feeds on it. Don't give him what he wants. Julian's internal voice remained steady even as his pulse quickened. He merely extended a single finger, pointing toward the destroyed locker, letting the evidence speak for itself.

 

Happy Jack tilted his head like a curious predator, eyes flickering toward the destruction as if seeing it for the first time. His grin widened, revealing too many teeth.

 

"Hmmm, well, I'll keep my eyes peeled." The mock sincerity dripped from every syllable as he stood, stretching his arms overhead with casual disregard before offering Julian a half-hearted, exaggerated salute.

 

He turned to leave but paused beside Mr. Price, leaning in uncomfortably close. His breath whispered across the man's cheek as his grin stretched beyond the boundaries of normalcy, eyes gleaming with calculated madness.

 

"Hey champ," Happy Jack's voice lilted into a sing-song cadence, "make sure no one touches my shit." He punctuated the statement with a firm slap to Mr. Price's back that echoed through the room like a gunshot.

 

For the first time, Mr. Price's composure cracked—a momentary flinch, a tightening around the eyes. The manager had navigated the treacherous waters of the wrestling world for decades, but Happy Jack operated outside the rules of normal human interaction, making him impossible to predict or prepare for.

 

With a final giggle that lingered like perfume, Happy Jack sauntered from the room, his laughter echoing long after he'd disappeared from sight. Julian remained motionless; his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath the skin. His fingers twitched at his sides, an almost imperceptible tell that betrayed the storm raging beneath his carefully maintained exterior.


He had built his career, his identity, on being a man of refinement in a world of brutes—the gentleman warrior, the civilized savage. Control was his religion, discipline his daily practice.

 

But in that moment, as he surveyed the wreckage of his personal space, Julian St. James wanted nothing more than to tear Happy Jack apart—slowly, methodically, and with the same calculating precision he applied to everything else in his life. And that, perhaps, was exactly what Happy Jack was counting on.


 

MATTHEW VS. HAPPY JACK



The atmosphere within Hammerstein Ballroom was charged with a strange tension—dense and almost touchable, enveloping the audience like a mist before a tempest. 3,000 heartbeats synchronized in anticipation, creating an electric current that seemed to charge every molecule in the room. Summit Fighting League wasn't just promising something different tonight—they were about to deliver something primal, something that danced on the razor's edge between sport and savagery.


The building's lights dimmed to a soft twilight, casting extended silhouettes across the octagon that dominated the center of the venue—an unforgiving metal prison waiting for its next victims.


"Ladies and gentlemen," Danny Diaz announced, his voice carrying a ceremonial gravity as it echoed through the speakers, "the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL!"


The crowd responded in perfect unison—"ONE FALL!"—their voices merging into a thunderous roar that seemed to make the very foundations of the building tremble.


"There are no rounds, no escapes—win only by pinfall, submission, otherwise match will be a no contest!" Diaz continued, his voice rising with each syllable. A cascade of boos washed over the venue at the mention of a potential no contest, the displeasure of the crowd manifesting as a living, breathing entity.


Jonathan Marks leaned forward at the commentary desk, the overhead lighting catching the earnestness in his eyes. "You know, Dex, I've been calling events for nearly twenty years, and there's something in the air tonight that feels... different." His voice carried the weight of a man who sensed something momentous approaching. "Almost primal."


Dex Williams nodded slowly; his features set in a grim expression. "That's because what we're about to witness isn't just another match, Jonathan." He tapped his finger against the desk for emphasis. "This is about to be a collision between a man fighting for survival and something that... well, I'm not sure what Happy Jack even is anymore."


The first entrance theme erupted through the speakers—a haunting melody underscored by thunderous war drums. The crowd rose to their feet in a wave of anticipation.


"Introducing first," Diaz bellowed, "from Cork, Ireland! Standing six-foot-two, weighing in at 235 pounds... MATTHEWWWW!"


Emerald lights sliced through the darkness as Matthew emerged from behind the curtain. His muscular frame was already glistening with sweat, each droplet catching the light like tiny diamonds against his pale skin. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out like cords, his eyes—sharp, focused, unnervingly calm—scanning the crowd with predatory intensity.


"Look at Matthew's eyes," Jonathan observed, his voice hushed with respect. "That's not the look of a man coming for a competition. That's the look of someone preparing for war."


"He knows what's waiting for him," Dex replied, his normally brash tone subdued. "Matthews fought all kinds—technicians, high-flyers, power wrestlers—but Happy Jack? That's like preparing to fight a nightmare. You can't train for that."


Matthew's boots struck the steel ramp with methodical precision, each step deliberate, unrushed—a man walking willingly into the valley of death. The white tape wrapped around his fists was pristine now, but both he and every soul watching knew it wouldn't remain that way for long.


As he reached the cage door, he paused, taking a deep breath that expanded his chest. There was no showboating, no acknowledgment of the adoring crowd chanting his name. This wasn't about them. This was about surviving against a man who didn't play by any recognizable rules.


Focus on what matters, Matthew told himself, his inner voice steady despite the chaos around him. He feeds on fear. He thrives on hesitation. Give him neither. He stepped into the cage, moving to his corner with the stoic dignity of an ancient warrior entering a gladiatorial arena.


"No theatrics from Matthew tonight," Jonathan noted. "He's approaching this with the grim determination of a man who understands exactly what he's facing."


"Smart," Dex agreed. "Every ounce of energy he saves now, he'll need later. Trust me on that."


The arena plunged into darkness so complete it felt like being swallowed whole. The crowd's excited murmurs faded to tense silence as a single, blood-red spotlight flickered to life, casting crimson shadows across the entrance ramp.


Then it came—a sound that made the hair on the back of every neck stand at attention. Laughter, but not of joy or amusement. This was the fractured, disjointed giggle of something broken, something that found humor in pain and delight in suffering. It rippled through the sound system, distorted and jarring, a sonic violation that made even the most hardened fans shift uncomfortably in their seats.


The screen flickered with jagged, static-filled images—close-ups of a face that barely seemed human anymore: bloodstained teeth bared in a rictus grin, eyes that reflected no light, just an endless, hungry void.


"Ohhhhh Maaaaaaattthheewwwwwww..." The voice slithered through the speakers like a serpent. "Have you come to plaaaaaaay?"


Jonathan's voice faltered slightly. "In all my years calling events, I've never felt a presence quite like this. It's as if the very atmosphere in the building has changed."


"Because it has," Dex replied soberly. "What we're about to see isn't an act anymore. Some people wear their character like a costume. With Happy Jack, the line disappeared a long time ago. What's left is... something else entirely."


A thunderous bass drop shook the arena to its foundations as Happy Jack materialized from the shadows. His movements were jerky, unnatural—a marionette with tangled strings. His face was a canvas of horror, freshly applied crimson war paint streaking from his hairline down across his lips, creating the illusion of a permanent, grotesque smile. His mismatched eyes—one ice blue, one murky brown—darted frantically around the arena, never focusing on any one thing for more than a moment, as if constantly distracted by voices only he could hear.


The crowd, normally electric with chants and cheers, fell into an uneasy silence. Children clutched their parents' arms; hardened fans who had seen the most violent stipulation matches looked on in unnerved fascination.


"Listen to this place," Jonathan whispered, almost afraid to break the silence. "You could hear a pin drop."


"They're not sure if they're watching a match or an exorcism," Dex responded. "And honestly? Neither am I."


Happy Jack skittered toward the cage, his movements more arachnid than human. He pressed his face against the steel mesh, licking the metal as he locked eyes with Matthew, who remained perfectly still in his corner.


"I'm going to peel you apart, layer by layer," Jack called out, his voice oscillating between a childlike singsong and guttural growl. "And I'm going to make art with what's inside you."


Matthew's expression remained carved from stone, but a muscle jumped in his jaw—the only outward sign that he had heard the threat at all. Jack slithered through the cage door, immediately dropping to all fours and crawling to the center of the cage. His shoulders twitched and spasmed as he tilted his head at an impossible angle, staring up at Matthew with a smile that stretched far too wide for any human face.


Referee Leo Torres glanced between the two competitors, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. This wasn't what he had signed up for. Nevertheless, he raised his hand, looking to both men.


"I want a clean fight," he instructed, the standard preamble sounding absurdly inadequate for what was about to unfold.


Happy Jack's response was to lick his lips and giggle, rocking back and forth on his haunches.


With visible reluctance, Torres signaled for the bell.


DING! DING! DING!


No hesitation, Matthew reminded himself as he exploded from his corner, closing the distance in three powerful strides. Take control early. Don't let him dictate the pace.


His right fist connected with Jack's jaw with a sickening crack that echoed through the building—a punch thrown with such perfect technique and devastating force that it should have ended the contest then and there.


But Happy Jack didn't fall.


He didn't stagger.


He absorbed the impact, his head snapping to the side before slowly rotating back to center. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth crimson as his lips curled into a smile of perverse delight.


He laughed—a wet, gurgling sound—and spat a mouthful of blood onto the canvas.


"Is that all you've got in you, Irish?" he hissed, his voice firm with excitement rather than pain. "I was hoping for so much more."


Jonathan's voice was hushed with disbelief. "I don't believe what I'm seeing. That shot would have knocked out any normal human being."


"That's just it," Dex replied grimly. "We're not dealing with normal here."


Before Matthew could reset, Jack lunged forward with inhuman speed, fingers curled into claws. He raked them down Matthew's face, tearing flesh and drawing first blood with savage efficiency. The attack drove Matthew backward until his spine crashed against the unyielding steel cage with a hollow boom that resonated throughout the scene.


"What kind of animal fighting style is this?" Jonathan exclaimed; horror evident in his voice. "He's not wrestling—he's mauling him!"


Matthew's face contorted in pain, but he refused to cry out. Instead, he channeled the burning sensation into fuel, driving a perfectly placed knee into Jack's exposed ribs. The impact lifted Jack off his feet, folding him in half with a sickening crack.


But even as he doubled over, Jack's hand shot out, catching Matthew's wrist in a vice-like grip. With unexpected strength, he jerked Matthew forward, whipping him face-first into the steel mesh of the cage.


The crowd gasped as Matthew's forehead bounced off the metal, immediately opening a gash above his right eyebrow. Blood cascaded down his face in a crimson curtain, dripping onto the canvas in a rhythmic pattern that matched the pounding of his heart.


Don't panic, Matthew told himself, blinking blood from his eyes. This is what he wants. Clear your head. Find your center.


With the practiced discipline of a seasoned fighter, he regained his composure. As Jack advanced for another attack, Matthew caught his outstretched wrist, pivoting his hips and using Jack's own momentum to launch him into a devastating reverse jawbreaker.


Jack's body went momentarily limp as his jaw absorbed the brunt of the impact, his head snapping back at a sickening angle. He collapsed to the canvas, body twitching, a strange, gurgling sound emanating from his throat.


"That might be it!" Jonathan exclaimed as Matthew pounced for the cover. "Matthew catching Jack with that picture-perfect jawbreaker!"


FIRST COVER!


ONE!


TWO!


Just as the referee's hand was about to hit the mat for the final count, Jack's body convulsed violently. His back arched at an impossible angle before he flipped to his feet in a single, fluid motion that defied both gravity and human physiology.


"What in God's name?" Dex whispered, genuine fear creeping into his normally confident voice. "I've never seen anyone move like that after taking a shot like he just did."


Matthew didn't waste time questioning the impossible. He charged forward, intent on maintaining his advantage—but Jack was ready. He ducked under Matthew's outstretched arm with serpentine flexibility and drove his thumb deep into the Irishman's exposed throat.


Matthew's eyes bulged as his airway was compressed, hands instinctively clawing at his neck as he struggled for breath. Jack's face was inches from his own, those mismatched eyes boring into him with manic intensity.


"Can you feel it?" Jack whispered, his breath hot against Matthew's ear. "That's what dying feels like. Isn't it beautiful?"


With Matthew momentarily defenseless, Jack launched himself into the air, driving a flying knee directly into his opponent's face. The impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot, snapping Matthew's head back with such violence that for a moment, the crowd feared they had just witnessed a career-ending injury.


Matthew collapsed against the cage, his legs buckling beneath him as consciousness threatened to flee. Blood streamed from his nose, mingling with the crimson river already flowing from his forehead.


Jack didn't simply follow up with a conventional attack. He pounced like a rabid animal, teeth bared and sank them into Matthew's already bleeding forehead. The crowd recoiled in horror as Jack's jaws worked, tearing at the wound, blood smearing across both men's faces in a macabre display.


"This isn't a match anymore!" Jonathan shouted, his professional demeanor cracking under the weight of what he was witnessing.


"Leo Torres needs to stop this before—"


"He can't," Dex interjected, his voice tense. "No disqualification, remember? But the referee can stop the fight if it goes beyond a certain time limit. This is exactly what Jack wanted—a sanctioned opportunity to satisfy whatever sick hunger drives him."


Jack released his bite and spun to face the crowd; arms spread wide like a blood-soaked messiah. His face was a crimson mask, Matthew's blood dripping from his chin as he addressed the silent audience.


"This is what you want, yeah?" he screamed, his voice cracking with manic energy. "You wanna see the little Irish boy BLEED, BLEED, BLEED?"


The building remained eerily silent; thousands of spectators frozen in collective shock.

Jack turned back to continue his assault, but Matthew was no longer where he had left him.


Channel the pain, Matthew thought, drawing on reserves of strength forged through years of discipline. Use it. Transform it.


With a guttural roar that seemed to come from the depths of his Celtic ancestry, Matthew exploded from his prone position. His forearm connected with Jack's jaw with such ferocity that spittle and blood sprayed in an arc through the air.


Jack's body spun from the impact, but in a display of inhuman agility, he used the momentum to rebound off the cage wall. He came hurtling back like a human projectile, his heel connecting with Matthew's temple in a spinning kick of devastating precision.


The blow would have felled any other opponent, but Matthew merely staggered, refusing to go down. Blood streamed into his eyes, his vision a crimson haze, but still he stood, defiant.


Jack took a step back, genuine surprise flickering across his painted features. "Why won't you just die?" he hissed, confusion momentarily replacing his manic confidence.


Matthew didn't waste breath on a response. He lunged forward, the top of his skull connecting with Jack's face in a headbutt of such brutal force that it split Jack's lip wide open. Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down his chin and spattering across the canvas.


For the first time, pain registered in Jack's eyes—not pleasure, not excitement, but genuine shock at his own vulnerability. With renewed fury, Jack charged wildly, abandoning any pretense of technique or strategy—but Matthew was ready. He caught Jack's reckless assault, scooping his entire body into the air before driving him down into the canvas with a powerslam that shook the entire cage.


"The tide is turning!" Jonathan exclaimed as Matthew rolled into another cover. "Matthew weathering the storm and fighting back with everything he has!"


SECOND COVER!


ONE!


TWO!


Jack kicked out with such violence that he nearly threw Matthew off him entirely, a high-pitched laugh bubbling through the blood filling his mouth. But the laugh was different now—strained, desperate, the sound of someone trying to convince themselves more than others.


Something inside Matthew snapped. The last thread of restraint, of civilized competition, severed completely. He grabbed Jack by the collar and unleashed a barrage of closed fists, each one landing with the weight of righteous fury behind it.


"You wanted this," Matthew growled, his Irish accent thickening with emotion as he punctuated each word with a devastating blow. "You. Wanted. This."


Jack's manic laughter deteriorated into wet, gurgling sounds as his face absorbed punishment that would have ended any normal match long ago. Yet somehow, impossibly, he continued to move, continued to fight back with the desperate energy of a cornered animal.


In a final act of desperation, Jack's hand disappeared into his boot, emerging with a glint of metal—a crude spike fashioned into a makeshift weapon.


"He's got a weapon!" Jonathan shouted in alarm. "Where did that even come from?"


But Matthew's reflexes, honed by years of training and survival instinct, allowed him to catch Jack's wrist before the spike could find its target. For a moment, they remained frozen in this tableau—Jack struggling to drive the spike forward, Matthew holding him at bay with every ounce of his remaining strength.


"Is this how far you'll go?" Matthew asked, his voice barely audible, meant only for Jack's ears.


Something flickered in Jack's eyes—a moment of clarity, perhaps, or simply the recognition of his impending defeat. He swung wildly with his free hand, but Matthew ducked beneath it, using Jack's own momentum to slam him back against the cage with bone-jarring force.


The impact knocked the spike from Jack's grasp, sending it skittering across the canvas and out of reach. Both men separated, each staggering back, their bodies pushed beyond normal human endurance.


Matthew stood in the center of the cage, chest heaving with exertion, his once-white tape now completely crimson. Across from him, Jack swayed unsteadily, his normally fluid movements reduced to a drunken wobble, arms hanging limply at his sides.


"This is it," Dex whispered, leaning forward in his seat. "Matthews got him measured."


The crowd rose to their feet as one entity, three thousand witnesses to the culmination of this brutal odyssey. They recognized the look in Matthew's eyes—the focus, the determination, the inevitability of what was to come.


Jack took a stumbling step forward, a final act of defiance.


Matthew exploded into motion, his arm extending in a perfect arc—the Cork Clothesline catching Jack flush across the chest and throat. The impact created a sound like a whip crack, Jack's body contorting mid-air as he flipped completely, landing in a heap on the canvas.


"CORK CLOTHESLINE!" Jonathan screamed, rising from his seat at the commentary desk. "Jack just got turned inside out!"


Jack's body twitched once, twice, and then lay still—the manic energy that had animated him throughout the match finally extinguished. Matthew collapsed onto him, draping an arm across his

chest.


FINAL COVER!


ONE!


TWO!


THREE!


DING! DING! DING!


The modest crowd erupted in a cathartic cheer as Matthew rolled off his vanquished opponent, collapsing back against the cage. Blood soaked his entire upper body, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as his body struggled to process the ordeal it had just endured.


Leo Torres raised Matthew's hand in victory, but there was no celebration in the Irish warrior's eyes—only the haunted look of a man who had stared into an abyss and barely escaped its pull. Across the cage, medical staff cautiously approached Happy Jack's motionless form, uncertain whether the threat he posed was truly neutralized or merely dormant.


"Ladies and gentlemen," Jonathan said, his voice hushed with a mixture of awe and relief, "in all my years behind this desk, I have never witnessed anything like what we just saw. Matthew emerges victorious, but at what cost?"


Dex nodded solemnly. "Some victories change you, Jonathan. And I'm not sure anyone walks away from a battle with someone like Happy Jack without carrying scars that go far deeper than what we can see."


Winner: Matthew via pinfall


 

The atmosphere within the Hammerstein Ballroom changed as though it were alive, shifting from the electric intensity of the fight to something deeper and more substantial. The crowd's collective gaze remained fixed on Happy Jack's motionless form at the center of the cage. His body lay sprawled across the canvas—either genuinely unconscious or performing one final act of psychological theater—while medical personnel cautiously approached from opposite sides.

 

Jonathan Marks, sitting at the commentary desk, watched the scene with professional composure, giving the moment its due seriousness before eventually speaking up. His voice emerged softer than usual, carrying the measured tone of a man who recognized the significance of what they had just witnessed.


"As Happy Jack makes his way to the back," he said, nodding toward Happy Jack limping back, "we are now getting ready for the main event."


Beside him, Dex Williams exhaled audibly, running a hand across his face as if physically wiping away the intensity of the previous match. He shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed on the medical team exiting behind Happy Jack.


"Jon, it will be damn near impossible to beat that match we just witnessed," he stated, his typically boisterous delivery subdued by genuine respect. "That wasn't just a fight—that was... something else entirely."

As if responding to an unspoken cue, the venue's lighting system executed its programmed transition. The house lights dimmed in precise sequence while colored spotlights activated, sweeping across the audience in choreographed patterns. The production booth triggered the opening notes of the main event's entrance theme, the music serving as both conclusion and prologue—ending one chapter of the night's violent narrative while simultaneously announcing the beginning of another.


The crowd stirred from its trance, energy rebuilding as they redirected their attention toward the entrance ramp. Whatever had transpired in the previous match—whatever boundaries had been tested or crossed—was now being filed away, becoming simply another chapter in Summit Fighting League mythology as the main event beckoned.

The night's final battle was about to begin.


At the center of the steel cage that dominated the ballroom floor, Danny Diaz stood with the practiced poise of a man who had announced a thousand battles. His suit jacket caught the spotlight that isolated him in the arena's center, creating an aura of ceremony around his figure. Beside him, referee Jason McCarthy maintained his position with the quiet authority of a man who commanded respect not through words but presence. His features remained impassive; arms crossed over his chest—the human embodiment of rules in a realm built on controlled chaos.


Danny inhaled deeply; his eyes briefly swept the expectant faces surrounding the cage before he raised the microphone with ceremonial slowness.


"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice resonating with professional swagger, "it is time for your MAIN EVEN—"


The speakers erupted without warning, a wall of sound demolishing his final syllable. The opening guitar riff—arrogant, unmistakable, deliberately disruptive—tore through the air like a blade. The abrupt sonic assault transformed the audience instantaneously, faces contorting with recognition before minds could fully process what was happening. Bodies rose from seats, fingers pointed toward the entrance ramp, voices colliding in a hurricane of reactions that ranged from ecstatic welcome to visceral rejection.


In the commentary booth, Jonathan Marks felt his professional composure fracture, genuine surprise overtaking his practiced neutrality. His body instinctively leaned forward, eyes widening as he registered the familiar entrance theme.


"Wait just a minute..." His voice lifted with the rising inflection of authentic astonishment. "This is unscheduled..."


Across the desk, Dex Williams made no effort to mask his disgust. His hands slapped against the table's surface with enough force to send his headset microphone bobbing, the impact audible through the broadcast feed.


"Is this guy going to make it a habit of interrupting main events he's not even part of?" The contempt in his gravelly voice was blatant, his face contorting into a mask of professional disdain.


The house lighting system responded to the musical intrusion, complex programming triggering a cascading effect that bathed the entrance ramp in golden radiance. Each thunderous drum beat synchronized perfectly with strobing effects, transforming what should have been an unwelcome interruption into calculated spectacle. The technical precision betrayed premeditation—this was no impromptu appearance but a choreographed hijacking.


Then, like a deity materializing from golden mist, he appeared.


Titan.


He stood motionless for five heartbeats, allowing the audience to absorb every meticulously crafted detail of his presence. The signature designer sunglasses perched on a face that belonged on magazine covers rather than in combat sports. The bleached blonde hair styled to project careless perfection. Every muscle of his sculpted physique seemed individually defined, each contour accentuated by a strategic application of baby oil that caught the light in a way that transformed flesh into living marble.


In one hand, he held a wireless microphone—a prop that, in his grasp, became both weapon and scepter. Let them look, he thought, suppressing the smile that threatened to break his calculated expression. Let them hate. Let them love. Just let them feel something.


He began his advance down the ramp with the unhurried confidence of royalty, each step a deliberate performance. His gait communicated absolute certainty—the walk of a man who had never questioned his place at the center of attention and never would. The physicality of his movement carried the arrogance his silence momentarily withheld.


Reaching the midpoint of the ramp, Titan stopped with theatrical precision. He raised the microphone with intentional slowness, allowing anticipation to build in the controlled pause before speech. His lips parted, but he remained silent for three additional seconds, feeling the crowd's collective breath held in suspense.


When he finally spoke, it was just two words, delivered with devastating simplicity.


"Cade Mercer."


The reaction was seismic—three thousand voices erupting in a simultaneous explosion that seemed to physically shake the century-old building's foundations. Titan withdrew the microphone slightly, his head tilting back almost imperceptibly as he absorbed the energy, processing it like a narcotic. His lips curled into the barest suggestion of a smirk, satisfaction radiating from him in almost tangible waves.


Perfect. Every goddamn time.


In the commentary booth, Jonathan Marks struggled to maintain his professional equilibrium, leaning toward his broadcast partner with visible concern.


"You have to wonder if Titan actually believes Mercer is here tonight," he offered, his tone suggesting reasonable doubt. "I haven't received any confirmation of him even being in the building."


Dex Williams responded with a dismissive scoff, muscular arms folding across his chest in a physical manifestation of his contempt. "Figures," he muttered, the single word carrying the weight of comprehensive judgment.


Back on the entrance ramp, Titan orchestrated his next move with a performer's precision. He lowered his sunglasses with one finger, revealing piercing eyes that purposely scanned the audience section by section. The gesture was calculated psychological theater—making three thousand people momentarily believe he might be looking directly at them.


After completing his survey, he shrugged with exaggerated theatricality, shoulders rising and falling in perfect synchronization with his renewed approach to the microphone.


"Nothing?" His voice carried mock surprise, the question rhetorical and venomous. "Not even a peep?" A beat of practiced pause. "Cade, buddy, are you—are you back there? Hiding behind your entourage maybe?"


The question hung in the air, Titan allowing the moment to stretch into discomfort. He executed a slow, premeditated turn toward the entrance tunnel, his body language shifting to theatric exaggerated concern as he scanned the darkened passage behind him.


The emptiness that greeted him was exactly what he expected.


Predictable. So damn predictable.


Titan pivoted back to face the audience, his expression now transformed by a grin that never reached his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice dripped with artificial sincerity that made the underlying mockery all the more cutting.


"Y'know, I figured after last week, you'd at least show up to tell me to shut my mouth." He shook his head in theatrical disappointment, golden hair catching the light with each movement. "But, hey... maybe that's just me thinking you had a little fight in you."


A short, calculated chuckle escaped him as he began a measured pace across the width of the ramp, each movement designed to maintain the audience's complete attention. The microphone never strayed far from his lips, his control of the moment absolute.


"Maybe I was wrong," he continued, voice dropping slightly in pitch, drawing the audience in despite themselves. "Maybe I gave you too much credit. Maybe..."


The trailing silence was perfectly timed, Titan's fingers reaching up to adjust his sunglasses with practiced flourish. The spotlights caught the lenses at precisely the right angle, creating a momentary flash that punctuated his dramatic pause. He lifted his chin, a monarch preparing to deliver judgment.


"Maybe you just know what's coming."


The crowd erupted again, the reaction splitting along partisan lines—those who lived for Titan's brand of arrogant spectacle roaring approval, while others hurled challenges and insults that merely fed the atmosphere he thrived in. The chaotic sound was music to his ears, confirmation that he remained the center of the Summit Fighting League universe regardless of scheduled matchups.


They can pretend all they want. The show doesn't start until I decide it does.


Jonathan Marks struggled to maintain his broadcasting professionalism, his voice carrying the tension of a man trying to contextualize disruption without endorsing it.


"Titan is making it very clear that he believes Mercer is ducking him," he offered, attempting to frame the interruption in sporting terms.


Beside him, Dex Williams made no such effort at neutrality. His face hardened into contemptuous lines, the expression of a man who had fought his way through an era where respect and merit still mattered.


"Oh please," he growled, disgust evident in every syllable. "Titan knew damn well Cade wasn't scheduled to be here tonight. This ain't a callout—it's a setup for a fight on his time, on his terms."


Titan took a measured step forward, now close enough to the cage to make direct eye contact with Danny Diaz and Jason McCarthy. Both men remained in position, their faces schooled into professional masks that barely concealed their impatience. The production team was likely screaming into their earpieces, the main event match possibly now derailed by this unauthorized appearance.


Titan's mouth curved into a knowing smirk as he held their gaze, his entire demeanor communicating a silent challenge: What are you going to do about it?


He knew the answer. Nothing. Turning back to the crowd with the unhurried confidence of a man who owned not just the moment but the venue itself, Titan raised the microphone for his parting shot.


"Guess we'll try again next week, Cade."


With careful, almost sensual slowness, he opened his fingers, allowing the microphone to fall from his grasp. It hit the ramp with a dull thud that the sound system captured and amplified—an auditory exclamation point on his performance. The physical abandonment of the microphone carried more impact than any additional words could have achieved.


Exit while they're still watching. Always leave them wanting more.


The crowd's reaction intensified as Titan executed a precise heel turn, his body language shifting to communicate complete satisfaction as he began his retreat. His pace remained deliberately unhurried—a champion's walk, regardless of what the record books actually showed. Each step carried the absolute certainty of a man who knew all eyes remained fixed on him until he decided to release them from his spell.


"And just like that, Titan hijacks another main event segment!" Jonathan exclaimed, professional outrage barely masking his recognition of the moment's effectiveness. "No Cade Mercer, no confrontation—just Titan making sure all eyes stay on him."


Dex's response emerged through clenched teeth, his integrity-fueled frustration evident. "If Titan wants Mercer that bad, maybe he should try fighting his way back into the title picture instead of talking his way into it."


The production cameras followed Titan's retreat, tracking his perfectly proportioned physique as he approached the curtain. Just before disappearing from view, he paused—a final moment of theater. Without turning, he raised one hand in a dismissive backward wave, the gesture simultaneously acknowledging and dismissing the chaos he'd created.


Then he was gone, leaving only the aftermath of his presence—a venue thrown into disarray, a main event momentarily forgotten, and three thousand people still reacting to a man who was no longer there.


Inside the cage, Danny Diaz and Jason McCarthy exchanged looks of professional resignation. Danny shook his head slightly, adjusting his tie before raising the microphone again, determined to salvage what remained of the planned program.


But the damage—or the triumph, depending on perspective—was complete.


Titan had gotten exactly what he wanted.


Again.


 


The curtain fell behind Titan with the soft rustle of heavy fabric, swallowing him from the crowd's view as he crossed the threshold from public spectacle to private triumph. His footsteps echoed against the concrete floor of the backstage corridor, each stride carrying the swagger of a conqueror returning from battle. The production area parted before him—techs with headsets, assistants clutching clipboards, stagehands moving equipment—all instinctively creating space as he passed.


Another night, another moment they'll be talking about tomorrow, he thought, satisfaction warming his chest like expensive whiskey. The smirk that had adorned his face in front of the cameras remained fixed in place, not a performance now but genuine pleasure at a game well played.


That was the thing about Titan—he didn't just walk through a space. He occupied it. He owned it. The very air seemed to rearrange itself around his presence, as if acknowledging something superior had entered its domain.


The monitor setup that allowed talent to watch the show flickered with images of the disrupted main event. Diaz was attempting to regain control of the moment, but Titan knew the damage was done. The narrative had been hijacked. Mission accomplished.


"Oi!"


The thick Irish accent sliced through his satisfaction like a blade.


"Would ya ever just shut the hell up for once?"


Titan pivoted slowly, deliberately—a man who refused to be startled even when surprised. His torso swiveled smoothly as if it were on a well-oiled hinge, that practiced smirk never faltering as Matthew materialized from a shadowed alcove.


The Irish fighter looked battle-worn, gym bag slung over his powerful shoulder, clearly on his way out after his brutal match with Happy Jack. Bruises mapped his face in shades of purple and yellow, a cut above his eye freshly stitched. But his eyes—those eyes burned with an intensity that defied his physical exhaustion, boring into Titan with undisguised contempt.


Titan chuckled softly, adjusting his designer sunglasses with practiced nonchalance. "Oh, Matt-Hugh," he mused, the words dripping with condescension. "To what do I owe this little farewell speech?"


Matthew stepped forward, closing the distance between them with deliberate steps. His head tilted slightly, brow furrowing as he studied Titan like a puzzle missing several pieces.


"I'm tired, mate," he said, each word carrying the weight of genuine frustration. "Tired of listenin' to ya moanin' and whinin' every damn week. Tired of watchin' ya come out here, bitchin' about not bein' the wife and instead bein' the bloody mistress."


The words landed with unexpected delivery, striking a nerve so carefully hidden that Titan himself had almost forgotten its existence. For a heartbeat—just one—the carefully constructed mask slipped. The smirk faltered, eyes widening fractionally behind tinted lenses, shoulders tensing imperceptibly beneath designer fabric. Anyone else might have missed it, but Matthew didn't. His lips twitched with the satisfaction of a fighter who had found an opening in seemingly impenetrable defense.


How dare he...


Titan recovered instantly, years of image management kicking in like muscle memory. He laughed—a full, seemingly genuine sound that echoed against the concrete walls. With theatrical slowness, he slid his sunglasses down just enough to make direct eye contact, wanting Matthew to see the dismissal in his gaze.


"Funny," he hissed, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a private joke. "Coming from someone who just got their ass beat by a clown."


Matthew exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something unreadable. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with the electricity of unspoken challenge.


Production staff moving through the area slowed their pace, sensing the brewing confrontation. Then, with the casual delivery of a man dropping a grenade, Matthew spoke.


"How 'bout this then, Titan? You and me. Number one contender's match." His Irish accent thickened with intensity. "You want a shot at Cade, right? So do I. So let's settle it."


Titan blinked once. Then twice. Then scoffed, his mind racing beneath the practiced exterior.


Is he serious? This nobody thinks he deserves to be in the cage with me?


"Nah," he replied with calculated dismissiveness, straightening his posture to emphasize their height difference. "I only main event pay-per-views."


Matthew barely reacted. If anything, he looked bored by the response, as if he had already written the script for this conversation in his head and Titan was simply reading his lines.


"Then so be it," he shrugged, adjusting the strap of his gym bag with casual indifference. "I ain't got nothin' but time, mate."


Something in Matthew's easy confidence ignited a spark of genuine irritation in Titan's chest. The dismissal should have come from him, not this journeyman fighter who had already failed twice on the biggest stage.


"Listen," Titan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, words emerging with precise articulation. "You already had your second shot against Cade and showed the world—again—that you still aren't the man."


The insult hung in the air between them, but instead of landing, it seemed to dissolve against Matthew's unexpected equanimity. The Irish fighter nodded once, acknowledging the factual accuracy while remaining unmoved by its intended sting.


Then, with devastating calm, he tilted his head slightly and allowed his lips to curl into something resembling a smirk—a pale, authentic imitation of Titan's manufactured expression.


"And yet..." he started, each word emerging with surgical precision, "it looks like the company believes I'm the man to beat Cade since they keep bookin' me against him."


The words penetrated Titan's carefully constructed armor with the precision of a sniper's bullet, finding the vulnerable point where ego met insecurity. His face transformed, composure cracking as his jaw clenched involuntarily. Heat rose to his cheeks, burning beneath artificially bronzed skin.


He's right. They gave him the shot. Not me. HIM.


The realization twisted in his gut like a knife. For weeks—months—he had crafted the narrative of his entitlement to the main event, his rightful place as the man to dethrone Cade Mercer. He had spoken it into existence with such conviction that he'd almost believed it himself. But the uncomfortable truth remained: while he talked, Matthew fought. While he interrupted segments, Matthew earned opportunities.


Titan's fingers flexed unconsciously, nails digging crescents into his palm. His breath came slightly faster, nostrils flaring as he fought to regain the upper hand in a confrontation that had unexpectedly slipped from his control.


No. This isn't happening. I control the narrative. Always.


With a deliberate exhale, he rolled his shoulders back, attempting to physically shed the momentary vulnerability that had crept into his stance.


"Fine," Titan snapped, abandoning pretense, his voice carrying the sharp edge of genuine frustration. "You want it? You got it."


Matthew's expression remained unchanged—not elated, not intimidated, simply accepting. The lack of reaction somehow made the defeat sting more. With deadpan delivery that carried more impact than any shouted challenge could have, Matthew offered one final verbal jab before turning toward the exit.


"Joy. Can't wait."


And just like that, he walked past Titan without another glance, the sound of his footsteps fading as he disappeared down the corridor toward the parking garage.


Titan remained rooted to the spot, seething. His chest rose and fell with deliberately controlled breaths, teeth grinding together as he aggressively pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. The facade that came so naturally in front of cameras and crowds now required conscious effort to maintain.


Who does he think he is? This isn't his story. It's mine.


He was still marinating in frustrated indignation when Logan Drake appeared from an adjacent hallway, moving purposefully toward the gorilla position. Logan slowed his pace as he registered the scene, eyes flickering between Matthew's retreating figure and Titan's unusually tense posture.


Logan's brow furrowed, he may be inexperienced, but his eyes immediately recognized the aftermath of confrontation.


"What did I miss?"


Titan turned his head with deliberate control, forcing his lips into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes behind the designer lenses.


"Nothing," he replied, voice clipped despite his attempt at nonchalance. Then, seizing control of the narrative with the instinct of a born opportunist, he squared his shoulders and made his declaration: "You have your main event for your first pay-per-view. Me versus Matthew. Number one contender's match to the SFL World Championship."


Logan blinked, momentary confusion giving way to hardening resolve. His posture shifted subtly, the easygoing producer immediately replaced by the authority figure responsible for maintaining order in the chaos of professional combat.


"What?" he challenged, voice firm with unmistakable authority. "You guys can't just book whatever you want and say it's for a shot at the world title. That's my job. I'm the one who determines that, plus we haven’t even announced Kingdom Come to the public yet."


Titan's smirk deepened, genuine now as he sensed the shift in power dynamics. With theatrical slowness, he lifted one hand and slid his sunglasses down just enough to make direct eye contact with Logan.


"Oh really?" he murmured, the two words carrying volumes of implied threat. A pause hung between them, charged with unspoken understanding. Then, with the practiced timing of a man who knew exactly when to deliver the killing stroke, he added: "Let's see what Vic would say to Logan Drake refusing to book Titan versus Matthew."


The effect was immediate and visible. Logan's confident stance faltered, a shadow passing across his features as the implications sank in. Titan watched with satisfaction as the producer's throat worked through a difficult swallow, Adam's apple bobbing with unconscious anxiety.


Checkmate.


If Logan refused to sanction the match, Titan would bypass him completely, going straight to Victor Blackwell—the money man, the power behind the throne. And they both knew what would happen next. Victor would overrule Logan, undermining his authority further while tightening the corporate stranglehold on creative decisions.


Logan exhaled sharply, fingers rising to massage his temples in a gesture of preemptive defeat. The weight of professional reality settled visibly on his shoulders.


"Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth, each word extracted like a painful concession. "We'll announce it next week... and have a contract signing."


Triumph surged through Titan's veins, sweeter for having been earned through cunning rather than handed to him. His grin widened into something genuine for the first time since the confrontation began.


"Smart man," he purred, the words dripping with the satisfaction of victory.


Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Logan standing alone in the corridor. His stride recovered its natural confidence with each step, the momentary vulnerability already fading from memory, replaced by the intoxicating certainty that he had once again bent the world to his will.


Behind him, Logan remained motionless, shaking his head slowly. His eyes followed Titan's retreating figure with the wary assessment of a man who recognized a dangerous variable in an already precarious equation.


He didn't like this.


Not one bit.


But in the labyrinthine politics of Summit Fighting League, sometimes the battles backstage determined the wars in the ring—and Titan had just secured himself the opportunity he'd been demanding all along.


The question that remained, unspoken in the empty corridor, was how far he would go to ensure he didn't waste it.


 

THE MAIN EVENT

COLTON HAYES VS. GLENN STERLING (w/Vivian Sterling)



The Hammerstein Ballroom pulsed with anticipation, a living organism composed of three thousand souls united in collective hunger for spectacle. Bodies pressed against bodies in the intimate space, creating a pressure cooker atmosphere that made Madison Square Garden's vastness seem almost sterile by comparison. The building's ornate architecture—gilded ceilings, decorative moldings, vintage fixtures—provided an elegant backdrop to the primal drama about to unfold within the modern steel cage at its center.


Jonathan Marks and Dex Williams settled back into their positions at the commentary desk, professional composure reasserting itself after Titan's calculated interruption minutes earlier. Jonathan straightened his tie, a subtle physical reset to accompany his mental one.


"Folks, if you're just joining us, we had a brief, unscheduled appearance from Titan moments ago," Jonathan explained, his voice carrying the measured disapproval of a historian documenting a regrettable incident. He shook his head slightly, brow furrowed.

"The man seems determined to make every main event about himself."


Next to him, Dex Williams openly displayed his disdain, using his strong fingers to rub his temples as though he were attempting to physically erase the memory of what they had seen.


"Yeah, because that wasn't predictable," he scoffed, the words emerging with the caustic edge of a man who had witnessed too many egos to be impressed by theatrical posturing. "Titan shows up, runs his mouth about Cade Mercer, doesn't get what he wants, and walks out. Shocking." The final word seeped with sarcasm.


Jonathan huffed deeply, a broadcaster's technique for shifting energies, before purposefully redirecting the conversation. His voice transformed, professional restraint giving way to genuine enthusiasm as he leaned toward his microphone.


"But let's focus on what really matters—our scheduled main event!" The words carried the importance of a promise, his tone lifting the audience from disappointment to renewed anticipation. "And we've received word from the back that we will stay with this match for as long as we need to ensure you, the viewer, see the full fight!"


Dex nodded with visceral approval, hands coming together as he cracked his knuckles—a fighter's instinctive preparation for imminent action. He leaned forward, his frame casting a silhouette across the commentary table.


"Finally, something worth watching," he rumbled, eyes narrowing with excitement. "Two men. And only one can walk away the winner…Maybe with the help of a walker." Dex snickered, “sorry couldn’t help myself.”


The arena lighting system executed its programmed transformation, the house lights dimming in a precisely choreographed sequence that signaled the transition from anticipation to imminence. The crowd's energy shifted in response, an almost audible intake of collective breath as thousands recognized the ritual's beginning.


In the center of the cage, Danny Diaz stood with the practiced poise of a master of ceremonies. The wireless microphone in his hand caught the spotlight as he raised it to his lips, the venues ambient noise subsiding to an expectant murmur.


"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed, each syllable carrying theatrical poignancy, "it is time for your main event of the evening! This contest is scheduled for one fall!"


The crowd's response was predictable and immediate—the familiar phrase triggering an eruption of noise that seemed to physically push against the venue's century-old walls. The sonic wave contained the complex emotional mixture of anticipation, tribal allegiance, and primal hunger for controlled violence that defined the Summit Fighting League experience.


The lighting rig executed another programmed transition, plunging the space into momentary darkness before an elegant orchestral overture flooded the sound system. The music was a study in contradictions—classical sophistication underscored by an almost subliminal arrogance, refinement with a razor's edge. Like its owner, it presented respectability while promising violence.


"Introducing first..." Danny's voice carried over the swell of strings, building the moment with practiced theatrical timing.


Golden spotlights activated in precise sequence, creating a pathway of light toward the entranceway just as Glenn Sterling emerged from behind the curtain. His entrance wasn't merely an arrival but a coronation—each movement precisely calculated to maximize his imposing physical presence. The custom-made robe draped across his massive frame shimmered with metallic thread that caught and reflected the spotlights, transforming ordinary movement into spectacle.


Beside him walked Vivian Sterling, her movements possessing a fluid grace that contrasted with her husband's deliberate power. Where Glenn demanded attention, Vivian commanded it—her striking features arranged in an expression of supreme indifference that somehow drew the eye more effectively than any display of emotion could have. She wasn't merely accompanying her husband; she was conferring legitimacy upon him through her mere presence.


The crowd's reaction manifested as a complex soundscape—disapproving boos interwoven with reluctant appreciation, the unconscious acknowledgment that regardless of personal feelings, they were witnessing someone extraordinary.


Danny Diaz drew a deep breath, his voice rising with practiced showmanship as Glenn approached the cage.


"Hailing from Charlotte, North Carolina... Standing at six-foot-seven, weighing in at two-hundred and eighty-seven pounds... accompanied by Vivian Sterling... he is GLENNNNN 'The Golden Boy' STERLING!"


At the base of the steel steps, Glenn paused with theatrical deliberation. He extended his arms outward, turning in a slow circle that invited—no, demanded—the audience to bear witness to his magnificence. His expression conveyed absolute certainty in his superiority, a man who viewed adulation not as a gift but as his natural due.


As he finally ascended the steps and entered the cage, he removed his robe with a flourish that transformed functional necessity into performance art. Without looking, he tossed the garment in Vivian's direction, the casual disregard of the gesture speaking volumes about their dynamic.


"The confidence on this guy..." Dex observed, disbelief coloring his voice as he shook his head. "Jon, he just threw that robe like he expects someone to fold it for him."


Jonathan couldn't suppress a knowing smirk, his response carrying the force of a long observation rather than mere opinion.


"That's Glenn Sterling. He's always had an inflated sense of self." He paused, delivering the crucial caveat with professional integrity. "The problem? He usually backs it up."


The building darkened once more; the preceding light show rendered inconsequential by the raw power of what came next. A deep, primal drumbeat erupted from the sound system—not music but a rhythmic war cry that vibrated through the wooden flooring beneath the audience's feet. The heavy guitar riff that followed carried no pretension, no artifice, just aggressive intent translated into sound.


The crowd's energy transformed instantly, rising to meet the musical challenge. Bodies surged forward as Colton Hayes materialized at the entranceway—a stark contrast to Sterling's theatrical arrival. Where Glenn had presented ceremony, Colton offered authenticity: standard fighting shorts, wrists wrapped in white tape showing signs of warm-up use, and an expression that could have frozen flame.


"And his opponent..." Danny announced, his voice adapting to the shift in energy.


Colton's advance down the ramp was purposeful rather than performative, each step carrying the focused intensity of a predator with a single target. His hands tightened into white-knuckled fists at his sides, jaw muscles visibly flexing beneath his skin as he established visual connection with Glenn across the distance between them.


"From Reno, Nevada... Standing at six-foot-even, weighing in at two-hundred and ten pounds... he is COLTON 'THE IRON WOLF' HAYES!"


The audience's response carried a different quality than what they had offered Sterling—less complex, more authentic. The cheers held genuine support rather than conflicted admiration, the sound of people recognizing something real amid the manufactured pageantry.


Dex nodded with visceral approval, recognizing a kindred spirit in Hayes's no-nonsense approach.


"Now this is a man who's here to fight," he stated, the words filled with genuine respect. "No pageantry. No nonsense. Just fists, elbows, and bad intentions."


Colton mounted the steel steps and entered the cage without ceremony, advancing directly to its center. His stance communicated absolute readiness—weight distributed evenly, muscles coiled with potential energy, eyes never leaving his opponent. Across the cage, Glenn continued his pre-fight ritual with exaggerated leisure, adjusting his wrist tape with theatrical thoroughness, his smirk suggesting that the actual combat was merely a formality before his inevitable victory.


Look at him, Colton thought, the internal assessment hardening his resolve. Still playing to the cameras when he should be focused on the fight. That's where I'll break him.


Referee Jason McCarthy positioned himself between the two men, his compact frame carrying the quiet authority of someone who commanded respect through experience rather than physical intimidation.


"No disqualifications," he stated, his voice clipped and professional. "Win by pinfall, submission, or knockout. If the match goes beyond the time, it's a no contest. Understand?"


Both men acknowledged with curt nods, neither willing to break the visual confrontation they had established. Glenn extended his hand in a gesture that initially suggested sportsmanship—until its true intent became clear. Rather than offering a handshake, he gestured downward with condescending emphasis, drawing attention to the height difference between them.


Still playing games, Colton observed, fury crystallizing into cold determination. Still thinking this is about appearances.


His response was immediate and unequivocal.


The crack of palm against cheek echoed through the Hammerstein Ballroom like a gunshot, the impact of Colton's open-handed slap snapping Glenn's head to the side. The crowd's reaction was instantaneous and deafening—an explosion of sound that seemed to physically shake the cage.


At the commentary desk, Dex Williams erupted with unrestrained delight, his frame rising partially from his seat as laughter boomed from his chest.


"HELL YES!" he bellowed, fist pounding the table with enough force to send his headset microphone bobbing. "THAT'S HOW YOU START A FIGHT!"


The sound of the bell was almost lost beneath the continuing audience reaction, but both competitors responded to it with instinctive recognition. Colton launched himself forward without hesitation, closing the distance with explosive speed to neutralize Glenn's significant reach advantage. His arms extended for a clinch, seeking to establish control before Sterling could leverage his superior size.


Glenn's defensive instincts manifested with practiced efficiency. He sidestepped just enough to avoid the direct approach, simultaneously capturing Colton in a side headlock that showcased the massive difference in their upper body strength. The muscles in his arm bulged as he wrenched the hold tight, applying pressure with calculated brutality.


"Classic wrestling control from Glenn!" Jonathan observed, professional analysis cutting through his excitement. "He's gonna slow this down, force Colton into his fight!"


Colton's response demonstrated the veteran savvy acquired through two decades of professional combat. Rather than struggling directly against the superior strength, he targeted vulnerability—driving two short, precise punches into Glenn's exposed ribs. The momentary relaxation in pressure allowed him to execute a standing switch, a wrestling fundamental executed with textbook precision that positioned him behind Sterling with rear waist control.


The advantage proved momentary. Glenn's elbow shot backward with surprising speed for his size, connecting with Colton's temple with enough force to momentarily disrupt his vision. Before Colton could readjust, Glenn had spun free of the control and delivered a European uppercut that sent shockwaves through Hayes's entire nervous system.


Power, Colton acknowledged as his knees momentarily buckled. Real power, not just for show.


Glenn pounced on the momentary vulnerability, driving Colton to the mat and covering him for the first pinfall attempt of the match.


"ONE—!" McCarthy's hand slapped the canvas once before Colton powered his shoulder upward, breaking the count with emphatic determination.


Glenn's expression flickered with momentary surprise—not at the kickout itself, which he had expected, but at the explosive force behind it. He had anticipated token resistance, not defiance.


Stronger than he looks, Glenn noted, reassessing his approach. Need to wear him down more.


Colton capitalized on the microsecond of hesitation, breaking Glenn's loosened grip and surging to his feet. His counter-offensive came without warning—a spinning backfist that connected with Sterling's jaw, followed immediately by a straight right hand that rocked the larger man backward. The sequence, known to Colton's fans as the Lone Howl Combo, demonstrated the perfect fusion of technical precision and brutal efficiency.


Maintaining pressure, Colton targeted Glenn's foundation with a low leg kick that connected just above the knee, then followed with an upward knee strike aimed at the solar plexus—


Glenn's massive hand closed around Colton's attacking leg with startling speed, intercepting the knee before it could reach its target. His lips curled into a predatory grin as he recognized the opening he'd been waiting for.


In one fluid motion that belied his size, Glenn scooped Colton's entire body upward, momentum carrying both men across the cage before he drove Hayes into the canvas with a devastating Golden Crush powerslam. The impact reverberated through the cage structure itself, the metal floor absorbing and redistributing the kinetic energy of Colton's body being used as a human projectile.


Glenn flowed directly into another cover, his massive frame pinning Colton's shoulders to the mat.


"ONE—TWO—!" McCarthy's count accelerated, his hand rising for the decisive third strike—


Colton's shoulder exploded upward with such force that it momentarily lifted Glenn's considerable weight, breaking the count with a display of raw determination that drew an appreciative roar from the crowd.


"Sterling is relying on his power advantage here," Jonathan observed, his voice rising to match the intensity unfolding in the cage, "but Colton is a survivor!"


Frustration flashed across Glenn's face as he yanked Colton to a vertical position with unnecessary roughness. He repositioned his grip, hoisting Hayes into the air for a delayed suplex—not just a functional attack but a demonstration of physical dominance, holding his opponent suspended above the canvas.


Show them all how much better I am, Glenn thought, satisfaction building as Colton remained suspended, helpless in his grasp. Show them who the real star is.


The moment of theatrical indulgence provided Colton the opening he needed. With the tactical awareness born from thousands of matches, he executed a mid-air reversal that transformed impending impact into positional advantage. As his feet touched the canvas behind Sterling, his hands were already moving into position, locking Glenn's leg into the devastating Nevada Kneebar submission hold.


The application was textbook perfect—leverage maximized, escape routes minimized, pressure directed precisely at the joint's weakest point. Glenn's body convulsed with the sudden, overwhelming pain of connective tissue being stretched beyond its natural limits.


Dex Williams erupted from his seat again at the commentary desk, professional detachment temporarily abandoned in the face of technical excellence.


"HE'S GOT THE KNEEBAR!" he shouted, voice carrying over the crowd's matching explosion of excitement. "STERLING'S IN TROUBLE!"


Glenn's face contorted into a mask of agony, a genuine scream tearing from his throat as his fingers clawed desperately at the canvas, seeking any means of escape. His massive frame twisted toward the cage wall, primal instinct driving him toward a boundary that offered no reprieve in this no-disqualification contest.


Outside the cage, Vivian Sterling's composed façade showed its first crack—a slight widening of the eyes, a barely perceptible tensing of shoulders. She stepped forward, closing the distance to the cage, her voice cutting through the ambient noise with laser-like precision as she addressed her husband.


"Focus, Glenn! Use what you have!"


The words carried loaded meaning beyond their surface simplicity. Glenn's eyes narrowed with sudden understanding, pain momentarily superseded by calculation. With strategic intent rather than desperate flailing, he maneuvered his body toward a specific section of the cage wall, positioning himself with exact precision despite the continuing agony of the submission hold.


Vivian's hand disappeared into her purse, emerging with something metallic that caught the arena lights for a fraction of a second before disappearing back into concealment. Colton, focused entirely on maintaining the submission that could end the match, advanced to adjust his leverage as Glenn's position shifted. The veteran fighter sensed nothing amiss as he closed the distance, intent only on increasing the pressure that had his opponent on the verge of submission.


The movement Glenn had been waiting for. With explosive suddenness, Sterling twisted his upper body, arm extending toward the cage wall where Vivian now stood. Her hand reached through the gap in the mesh, transferring something to his grasp in a movement so fluid and well-practiced it appeared almost choreographed.


Before Colton could register the danger, Glenn had pivoted back toward him, arm extended—


A fine mist erupted from whatever Glenn now held, striking Colton directly in the face. The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Hayes collapsed backward, hands clawing desperately at his eyes, body convulsing as he rolled across the canvas in genuine agony.


"WHAT THE HELL?!" Jonathan exclaimed; professional composure shattered by the shocking turn of events.


Beside him, Dex's response came through gritted teeth, anger evident despite his acknowledgment of the tactical reality.

"NO DQ, JON! IT'S PERFECTLY LEGAL!"


Vivian stepped back from the cage, her expression returned to impassive neutrality as she adjusted her expression with casual indifference, as if she had merely straightened a painting rather than participated in a match-altering intervention.


Glenn rose to his feet, the pain in his knee seemingly forgotten as he surveyed his handiwork with predatory satisfaction. His approach to his blinded opponent was unhurried, deliberate—a hunter approaching wounded prey with the luxury of absolute certainty.


He stood over Colton's writhing form, allowing the moment to stretch for maximum theatrical effect before dropping a massive elbow directly into the center of Hayes's exposed chest. Then another. Then a third, each impact delivered with increasing showmanship rather than practical necessity.


Glenn's face had transformed entirely, the earlier pain replaced by smug satisfaction. He milked the moment for everything it was worth, playing to the cameras even as the crowd's reaction shifted from excitement to disgust at the one-sided spectacle.

With theatrical slowness, he lifted Colton's barely responsive body from the canvas, positioning him precisely for maximum impact. The execution of the Throne Breaker—Glenn's finishing maneuver—was flawless, driving Hayes into the mat with such force that the entire cage structure vibrated in response.


Glenn hooked Colton's leg with casual confidence, eyes already lifting toward the ceiling in anticipation of victory as McCarthy dropped to the canvas.


"ONE."


The crowd's earlier enthusiasm had transformed into a complex mixture of responses—some cheering the dominant performance regardless of methods, others voicing disapproval at the tainted victory unfolding before them.


"TWO."


At the commentary desk, Dex Williams exhaled heavily, his expression conveying profound disappointment not in the outcome itself but in the manner of its achievement.


"THREE."


The bell rang with definitive finality, its sound cutting through the arena's conflicted reaction. Glenn rose to his feet with choreographed grandeur, arms raising above his head in triumph as Vivian looked on with calculated approval.


"The Golden Boy reigns supreme," Dex stated, the words emerging with the gravity of factual reporting rather than celebration.


Jonathan shook his head slightly, his professional objectivity clashing with his personal reaction to what they had just witnessed.


"Colton never saw it coming," he observed, the words carrying multiple layers of meaning.


Inside the cage, Glenn stood over Colton's prone form, a smirk of absolute satisfaction creasing his features as he observed the aftermath of his handiwork. The expression contained more than mere victory—it carried the recognition that something fundamental had shifted in their dynamic.


Because he knew—and soon Colton would know—that their conflict had transcended sport. The Iron Wolf would no longer be constrained by the rules of fair competition, the boundaries of sportsmanship. The next time they met, it wouldn't be about winning a match. It would be about vengeance.


Winner: Glenn Sterling via pinfall


 

bottom of page