Kingdom Come - Contenders 4

CHAPTER 12

The silent aftermath of half-hearted applause still haunted the 2300 Arena's ceiling, while beneath the spectacle, a more delicate current flowed through Summit Fighting League. Dwindling attendance for three straight weeks, backstage discontent, and the kind of press coverage that made promoters wince had created a dire situation. Yet amid the chaos, the essential elements had somehow aligned—through calculation, pride, or mere survival instinct.

Titan, Matthew, and Cade Mercer were now set on an inevitable path toward each other, their three-way showdown at Kingdom Come casting a long shadow. Colton Hayes had thoroughly dismantled Glenn Sterling's reputation, leaving the self-proclaimed "Golden Boy" devastated and disgraced. Meanwhile, Happy Jack's twisted sideshow threatened Julian St. James like a horrific hallucination. Every confirmed match felt like an explosive primed to detonate. As reality sank in, there were no certainties, no carefully crafted storylines—just a collection of fighters and one struggling promoter facing the most critical event in the promotion's short, stormy existence. Kingdom Come wasn't merely another show—it was the moment of truth.

The rain hammered down with vindictive persistence, transforming the streets outside the Lowell Memorial Auditorium into glistening rivers of disappointment. Neon from the venue's marquee fractured through the downpour, casting distorted, fever-dream reflections across the saturated pavement. Each raindrop struck the metal awning with the precision of a ticking clock—counting down to what Logan Drake could only imagine as disaster.

Logan stepped from the warmth of his taxi into the unforgiving Massachusetts night, the cold immediately seeping through his suit like unwelcome truth. The wind—sharp as criticism—cut straight to the bone. Logan's breath materialized before him, a ghostly reminder of everything ephemeral, including careers.

His gaze lifted to the scrolling digital display above the entrance doors, its blue letters bleeding into the wet darkness:

TONIGHT - CONTENDERS LIVE! TICKETS STILL AVAILABLE!

Something twisted violently in Logan's gut. That phrase had been unthinkable after the success of Strike Force Legends. Tickets still available. Strike Force Legends had shattered viewing records and transformed fringe fighters into household names.

Since that night, they'd had one good crowd—one. And now? Two straight weeks of half-empty buildings, producers scrambling to shoot around empty seats, and an audience that was losing faith by the minute.

This wasn’t the meteoric rise they had envisioned. This was a hard, fast descent, and Logan was running out of ways to stop it. Yet here they stood: a B-tier venue in a second-string city, with empty seats and a roster teetering on the edge of mutiny—all because Victor Blackwell couldn't resist playing God with careless words.

A sparse gathering of die-hard fans huddled beneath the venue's inadequate shelter, their usual pre-show electricity dampened by both weather and controversy. They spotted Logan immediately—the sculptor of their beloved promotion now trudging toward the entrance with the defeated gait of a general who knew the battle was already lost.

"Hey, Logan!" called a young man swaddled in a rain-soaked hoodie, water dripping from his nose. "You think Cade's gonna address the Tapout article tonight?"

Logan manufactured a professional smile that never reached his eyes—a diplomat's answer without a single word.

Another fan stepped forward, his face partially obscured by the hood of his jacket. "Any truth to what Victor said? About Strike Force being scripted?"

Logan didn't break stride. Couldn't break stride.

"Guess we'll all find out tonight," the fan chuckled, the words dissolving into the rain as he pushed through the double doors, escaping the questions that had plagued him for seventy-two sleepless hours.

The interior of the Lowell Memorial Auditorium offered physical warmth but no emotional reprieve. The building—once grand in a bygone era—now carried the melancholy of faded glory. Paint peeled in discreet corners. Floor tiles, worn by decades of footsteps, had lost their original color. The air hung heavy with the peculiar cocktail of industrial cleaning products, ancient dust, and anticipation.

This was a venue for bands past their prime. For high school graduations. For local boxing matches. Not for the promotion that had, until last week, been poised to revolutionize combat sports.

Logan had barely shaken the rainwater from his overcoat when his phone vibrated against his chest—the heartbeat of impending crisis. Social X had become a digital inferno. Every refresh revealed new damage, new fissures in the foundation he'd spent years establishing.

Cade Mercer, their champion—the stoic warrior whose legitimacy now hung in the balance—maintained a thunderous silence that spoke volumes.

Matthew had transformed his feed into a barbed-wire journal of Irish rage, each post more scathing than the last, interspersed with timestamps that suggested beer was fueling his midnight manifestos.

Jax Braddock, a man who had fought tooth and nail for every ounce of respect in this industry, now faced whispers that his journey was nothing more than scripted entertainment—and his response had been volcanic.

Even Titan, systematically the opportunist for the moment, had produced a slick video "rehearsing" his moves for an upcoming fight, complete with a mock director shouting "Cut!" when he executed a takedown—sarcasm wrapped in deadly serious implications. If anything, the rumor helped Titan as he was now saying his shocking first round loss to Cade was scripted.

Logan's jaw tightened to the point of pain. Victor had ignited this conflagration. He refused to say that he was wrong, and that Strike Force was not scripted. Now he left Logan alone to extinguish the flames with nothing but his bare hands.

From deeper within the building came the pandemonium of pre-show preparation: the metallic drag of equipment being positioned, lighting technicians calling coordinates to each other, the heavy thud of the cage platform being secured. Despite everything, the machinery of live production continued its inexorable advance.

Logan exhaled slowly, straightening his shoulders beneath the weight of expectations. He wasn't here to placate internet warriors or to solve an existential crisis with a single speech. His job—as it had always been—was to ensure that when the cameras went live, the product delivered.

The fights would happen. The remaining loyal fans would cheer. The broadcast would stream to homes worldwide.

And tonight... something would have to break before anything could be rebuilt. Logan moved forward, each step deliberate, each breath measured. The storm had followed him inside, invisible but undeniable, crackling with the electricity of impending change.

Colton Hayes sat motionless in his rental car watching the Lowell Memorial Auditorium through the rhythmic swish of overworked wipers. The rain hammered against the windshield with vindictive fury, transforming the world beyond the glass into a distorted watercolor of grays and muted neon’s. The venue's marquee flickered pathetically in the downpour, its bulbs struggling against the inevitable—much like the promotion itself.

CONTENDERS LIVE TONIGHT

Beneath it, in smaller letters that seemed almost ashamed: TICKETS AVAILABLE AT DOOR. The radio's soft hum had been his only companion for the past twenty minutes, the sound barely penetrating his thoughts until the DJ's voice cut through with manufactured enthusiasm.

"We still have free tickets available to caller number 50 for tonight's show at the Lowell Memorial Auditorium! Still waiting for that 50th caller!"

The DJ's desperate cheeriness echoed in the silence, an audible confirmation of what Colton already knew. He leaned back, pressing knuckles against his temple, a mirthless smile crossing his weathered features.

They can't even give the damn tickets away.

Colton's fingers drummed against the worn leather of the steering wheel, a counterpoint to the rain's steady assault. The dashboard clock read 6:47 PM. Bell time was at 8:00. He should have been inside already, taping his wrists, reviewing the night's segment with production.

Instead, he sat in his rental, wrestling with the same decision everyone else on the roster had already made. His phone lay on the passenger seat, screen illuminated with the evidence. Post after post on Social X—a digital graveyard of defiance and disgust:

Titan – "Gonna be a real shame when the big boss walks out to an empty cage tonight. Hope he’s got a monologue ready, ‘cause that’s all that’s on the card."

Jax Braddock – "If they wanna call us scripted, might as well script in my absence."

Matthew – "Scripted? Scripted?! Aye, well here’s a script for ya—Matthew ain't showin' up t’ be part of some made-up feckin’ fairy tale. I bleed for this sport, and I’ll be damned if I stand ‘round while some prick in a suit tells the world I’m a feckin’ actor."

The blue glow of his phone illuminated the car's interior as another notification appeared. Colton reluctantly reached for the device, already knowing what he'd find. Another Social X post—this one from the man who'd been living rent-free in his head for the past month.

Glenn Sterling – "Unfortunate about tonight's event, really. Would've been nice to see some of these so-called 'real fighters' prove their worth. Guess we'll just have to wait until Kingdom Come… if they even show up for that."

"You smug son of a bitch," Colton muttered, the words fogging in the cool air of his car.

Every perfectly curated word dripped with Sterling's trademark condescension. The man who'd spent a decade cultivating his "Golden Boy" image, positioning himself above the fray while simultaneously stirring the pot.

Colton tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel, his scarred knuckles whitening. One turn of the key and he could join the others—stand in solidarity with a roster that had finally decided enough was enough. They weren’t showing. They weren’t fighting. And they weren’t about to be part of whatever mess Victor Blackwell had created.

"One thousand tickets," Colton muttered to himself, the number tasting bitter on his tongue. The Lowell Memorial Auditorium seated nearly three thousand. One thousand tickets wasn't a show—it was a wake.

His finger hovered over the ignition. In all of the years of professional fighting, Colton Hayes had never once made a decision based on what was easy or politically expedient. And he wasn't about to start now.

Because he could see it all playing out with crystal clarity: Glenn Sterling sitting in the back, legs crossed in that tailored suit, crafting the narrative in real-time. The man who "honored his commitments" while everyone else "proved they were unprofessional." The only one with "enough respect for the fans to show up." By tomorrow morning, Sterling would have transformed this boycott from a justified protest into evidence of everyone else's inadequacy.

Colton caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror—the scar tissue above his right eye from a split that had taken twenty-seven stitches, the permanent hardness in his gaze that came from battling through regional circuits when no one knew his name. A face that had never learned how to back down from a fight.

Colton's mind replayed last week's confrontation with perfect clarity. The scene unfolded behind his eyes like a cherished film: Sterling trapped in his signature ankle lock, the man's usually immaculate appearance disheveled, that perpetually smug expression replaced by genuine panic as Colton applied pressure.

"Tap or it breaks, Golden Boy," he had growled, torquing Sterling's joint to the edge of structural failure.

The sound Sterling made—part squeal, part whimper—had been worth every bloody knuckle of Colton's career. For one perfect moment, the pretense had fallen away, and the real Glenn Sterling was exposed—scared, vulnerable, human.

"Ah, hell," he grunted, hand dropping away from the ignition. He threw open the car door, the sound of rushing rain immediately flooding the vehicle. He didn't bother hunching against the downpour as he stepped out, letting it soak through his jacket and jeans. The cold water streamed down his face, but he barely registered it as he strode purposefully toward the venue's entrance.

His boots splashed through puddles in the near-empty parking lot, each step cementing his resolve. He didn't care if the show was a disaster. Didn't care if he was the only one breaking ranks. Didn't even care if he was making a mistake.

There was only one truth that mattered tonight. If Glenn Sterling was inside that building, Colton Hayes would be too. Because some things were worth more than solidarity. Some things were worth more than making a point. Some things were simply about looking a man in the eye and finishing what you started.

Grizz let out a slow breath, watching his breath fog up the windshield of his old truck, the mist momentarily obscuring the world beyond the glass before dissolving back into nothing. The wipers had stopped working properly somewhere around New Haven, leaving islands of rainwater smeared across the glass like abstract paintings of regret. He'd made the five-hour trek from Philadelphia to the Lowell Memorial Auditorium without stopping, running on fumes, cold coffee, and the particular kind of stubbornness that only grows stronger with age.

The coffee—what remained of it—sat forgotten in the cupholder, a dark pool of liquid gone cold and bitter. It had come from some chain with a pink-and-orange logo, a place he used to stop at between venues when the circuit still felt like a journey rather than an escape. Back when his name still meant something in the business.

The radio chattered softly beneath the percussion of rain against metal—some local sports talk show dissecting tonight's Contenders event with the casual cynicism of analysts who had never set foot in a cage let alone a ring. Someone who never understood what it cost to put your body on the line for someone else's entertainment.

But tonight, Grizz wasn’t here for old memories or unfinished business. He was here for Logan Drake. For weeks, he’d been trying to get ahold of him—calls that ended with error messages, texts that never went through. At first, he told himself Logan was just too busy, drowning in the chaos of PMG and SFL. But as the weeks dragged on, the silence started to feel like something else. Avoidance. Maybe even outright exile. Every attempt to get past security, every excuse thrown his way, every closed door—it all added up to one thing: Logan didn’t want to talk to him.

His battered hands gripped the steering wheel, the knuckles still swollen and misshapen from two decades of wrestling—a roadmap of victories and losses permanently etched into bone and sinew. He figured he'd catch Logan in the parking lot, intercept him before he disappeared into that building, always rushing headlong into the next crisis, always carrying the weight of other people's ambitions.

Except Logan was already here. Through the distorted lens of rain-streaked glass, Grizz spotted him—a familiar silhouette cutting through the downpour with determined strides. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking that purposeful stride, that slight hunch of shoulders bearing invisible burdens.

Grizz leaned forward, squinting through the rain. Logan's attention shifted momentarily—his head turned toward a small group of fans huddled near the entrance. They were shouting something at Logan, their words muffled by the relentless hammering of rain against the pavement and the dull hum of city traffic in the distance. Grizz couldn't make out what they were saying. Their gestures were animated, insistent—arms waving, voices rising—but Logan didn't stop.

Grizz saw his window closing. With a grunt that carried the weight of too many postponed conversations, he pushed open the door. The cold rain immediately assaulted him, soaking through his worn flannel shirt.

"LOGAN!"

His voice, once capable of commanding attention in arenas across the country, was nothing against the storm's fury. The name dissolved into the ambient noise of rain striking pavement, the distant rumble of thunder, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt from the street beyond.

Logan continued forward, head slightly bowed against the downpour, shoulders set in that familiar posture of a man walking into battle rather than a professional event. Grizz stepped further into the rain, his boots splashing through growing puddles as he tried again.

"LOGAN!"

Nothing. No hesitation in that stride, no glance over the shoulder, no flicker of recognition. Just gone. Grizz came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, hands finding his hips as the rain continued its relentless assault. His breath came harder now, a combination of exertion and the familiar tightness that always accompanied thoughts of what had been lost. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his beard, soaking the collar of his shirt.

Too slow. Again. The story of his life these past few years—always one step behind, always reaching for something just beyond his grasp. He watched, jaw clenched against words that had no audience, as Logan disappeared through the doors of the venue. Swallowed by the very machine they had once spent endless nights planning, back when it was just an idea scratched onto bar napkins and whiteboards.

They had mapped out everything together—what Strike Force could be, what it should be. Long nights fueled by bad coffee and even worse takeout, chasing a vision they both believed in. Grizz had always been the realist, Logan the dreamer. And maybe that was why it worked—until it didn’t.

Until Titan.

Grizz had let it divide them. He let Logan’s obsession with landing the biggest name in the business push him away when he should have stayed, should have respected Logan’s call even if he didn’t agree with it. Should have been there to help him navigate the waters—especially with a shark like Titan circling. But instead of standing beside Logan, he walked away, convinced that Logan was making a mistake. Another opportunity missed. Another conversation delayed. Another chance to make things right—gone like smoke.

He ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead in a gesture of frustration more than grooming. Water dripped from his fingers as he stood there, momentarily suspended between action and surrender.

Grizz climbed back into his truck, pulling his phone from the passenger seat with one hand and wiping the rain from his brow with the other. The screen illuminated against the darkened cab of his truck, casting a glow that barely cut through the storm outside. He scrolled down to Logan Drake, thumb hovering over the call button.

For the hundredth time since he’d left Philly, he hit dial. For the hundredth time, the same automated response greeted him.

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

Grizz scowled, gripping the phone tight in his hand. Maybe Logan had been right to cut him off. Maybe that bridge had been burned beyond repair when Grizz walked out on Logan. Maybe some wounds weren't meant to heal. But damn it, he wasn't done trying to fix it. Not while there was still something worth saving in that building. Not while Logan was still fighting for the dream they'd both once believed in. Not while Grizz could still remember what it felt like when they were brothers instead of strangers.

The building should have been electric with pre-show energy—fighters warming up, production crew scurrying about, fans filtering in with mounting excitement. Instead, a suffocating tension hung in the stale air, broken only by the sporadic crackle of walkie-talkies and whispered conversations that died whenever someone new entered the room. The building felt like a hospital waiting area rather than the stage for a professional fighting show.

Logan Drake pushed through the door of the repurposed storage room they were calling the "production office"—a glorified closet with folding chairs and a wobbly table. The fluorescent lighting cast bright shadows across his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the tight lines around his mouth. Three days without proper sleep had transformed the normally composed man into someone barely holding himself together.

Waiting inside were the cornerstones of his broadcast team: Jonathan Marks, Dex Williams, and Mike "The Mic" Masters. All three men straightened as Logan entered, their expressions betraying the anxiety that had been building since they'd seen the social media firestorm engulfing the promotion.

Logan didn't bother with pleasantries. The luxury of time had evaporated hours ago.

"Alright," he announced, bracing his hands against the table, which creaked under the pressure.

"Here's the deal—every match and segment is canceled unless otherwise noted."

The announcement landed like a grenade, stunning the room into momentary paralysis. Jonathan recovered first, his broadcasting voice deserting him. "Wait... what?" He struggled to process the implications. "But... but, this is the go-home show. The last chance to sell pay-per-view buys for Kingdom Come."

Something fractured in Logan's carefully maintained composure. His eyes flashed with a dangerous intensity. "You think I'm not aware of that, Jon?" The words escaped like bullets before Logan visibly reined himself back in, exhaling sharply and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

The momentary crack in his facade revealed the true extent of the pressure crushing down on him. When he looked up again, the professional mask was back in place, but the damage had been glimpsed.

"Yes, I'm fully aware this is the last show before Kingdom Come," he continued, his voice recalibrated to the measured tone of crisis management. "But what are my other options? Sending you out there to hype up fights that may not even happen? Promising viewers at home they're gonna see Titan vs. Cade Mercer, when I don't even know if either man is in the building or even the same state?"

A humorless laugh escaped him as he shook his head. "Hell, I don't even know if Jack is showing up—and he's the one that walks around playing a clown."

The jab at Happy Jack—SFL's viral performer—silenced any potential objections. If even Jack was questionable, the situation was beyond dire. The reality crystallized for everyone in the room: this wasn't a scheduling issue or a contractual dispute. This was full-scale rebellion.

Dex shifted uncomfortably, his analytical mind already calculating the catastrophic ratings implications. Jonathan stared at the scuffed linoleum floor, decades of broadcasting experience offering no solution to this unprecedented crisis. Logan pressed on, his words gaining momentum like a runaway train.

"Mike, that means you're gonna be out there a lot tonight." He turned to Masters, whose characteristic enthusiasm dimmed visibly. "If and when people show up, you're on it. You're talking to them." Mike nodded with reluctant determination.

"Try and do whatever you can to build up their fights for Kingdom Come—if they have one booked, sell it. If they don't?" Logan's shoulders lifted in a resigned shrug. "Make something up. Get something going. We need something."

Mike cleared his throat, voicing the question no one wanted to ask. "And if... y'know... no one shows up?"

A smile devoid of any warmth curved Logan's lips. "Then we give 'em the best goddamn recap show in the history of professional fighting."

The silence that followed was choking—the sound of careers and reputations potentially imploding in real-time. Contenders, once rumored to be the crown jewel of weeknight wrestling and sports programming, was unraveling thread by thread before their eyes.

Jonathan, who had been an announcer for years, but his first time in professional wrestling, finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "You really think it's that bad?"

Logan met his gaze with unflinching certainty. "I don't think, Jon. I know."

He straightened his tie—a futile gesture of normalcy in a situation spiraling far beyond control—and moved toward the door with determined strides.

"Get ready. We go live in 30 minutes."

As the door closed behind him, the three men exchanged glances laden with unspoken dread. Outside, the rain continued its relentless assault on the building, a fitting soundtrack to the night ahead.

Tonight, Summit Fighting League wasn't presenting a combat sports showcase—it was engaging in a desperate form of triage. And Logan Drake, the man who had helped build it from nothing, was now frantically trying to prevent it from becoming nothing once again.

Live from the Lowell Memorial Auditorium

Lowell, MA, USA

7 pm - March 31

The Lowell Memorial Auditorium crouched beneath a relentless downpour, its aging facade streaked with rain that reflected the weak, stuttering glow of the marquee. Lightning occasionally silhouetted the building, illuminating what should have been lines of eager fans but instead revealed only scattered groups hurrying inside to escape the weather.

Inside, the atmosphere carried none of the electric anticipation that typically defined a wrestling show. The building—designed to hold three thousand—contained barely a third of that, with entire sections empty enough that production assistants had frantically taped off rows to consolidate the audience toward the camera-facing side. The scattered conversations echoed in the half-empty space, creating a disconcerting backdrop that felt more like a high school wrestling tournament than the final stop before a major pay-per-view.

From his vantage point in the production booth, one of the evening’s producers leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk as he barked instructions into his headset. His voice was tight with frustration, the strain evident in every syllable.

“Camera two, tighten up that shot! I don’t want to see empty seats.” His fingers tapped anxiously against the console as he watched the live feed flicker across multiple monitors.

The second camera adjusted, zooming in just enough to crop out the sparsely filled rows behind the die-hard fans clustered near the front. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

“Camera three, keep it low—aim toward the front rows when you pan. No wide shots. I repeat, no wide shots.”

On the screens before him, the camera operators scrambled to comply, shifting their angles to cheat the illusion of a packed house. The front rows—rowdy and animated—gave the impression of an electric crowd. But just beyond that, the gaps in seating became painfully obvious.

The producer swiped a hand over his face, inhaling sharply. “And somebody kill the damn lights in Section F and G!” His voice cracked with stress. “It looks like a damn searchlight on all those empty seats.”

A few seconds later, the lighting tech responded, dimming the overheads in those sections. The darkness helped, masking the glaring vacancies in the crowd. This wasn’t the first time they’d had to fake a full house. PMG had been rotating different TV crews from week to week, likely to keep costs down. That meant half the people in production tonight weren’t even familiar with how to properly shoot a wrestling event. The chaos in his headset reflected that.

The producer exhaled, slumping back in his chair for a brief second before straightening again.

Smoke and mirrors.

Down at cage side, Jonathan Marks tugged at his jacket, a nervous habit he thought he'd abandoned years ago. Years in broadcasting—from regional boxing matches in dimly lit halls to high-stakes football games and Olympic events watched by millions—had taught him how to mask concern with professionalism. Tonight, would test those skills to their limit. He straightened his posture as the monitor counted down the final seconds before going live.

Beside him, Dex Williams sprawled in his chair with performative nonchalance, his muscled arms—showcased by his trademark black tank top—crossed over his chest. The former fighter-turned-analyst scanned the sparse crowd, his expression hardening as he tallied the empty seats mentally.

"This is bad," he muttered, just loud enough for Jonathan to hear through their headsets. "Like, 'beginning of the end' bad."

Jonathan's eyes flicked toward his colleague, a warning glance that communicated volumes without words: Not now. Not on air.

The red light on the camera illuminated. "THREE, TWO..." the floor producer mouthed silently, pointing at the commentary position as the Contenders theme music swelled through the arena speakers.

Jonathan's expression transformed instantly, his media-trained smile appearing as naturally as breathing. When he spoke, his voice resonated with a confidence that contradicted everything about their surroundings.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Contenders! We are live from the historic Lowell Memorial Auditorium. We are just ONE week away from the biggest event in Summit Fighting League history—Kingdom Come!"

"And what a night that's shaping up to be," Jonathan continued, his broadcaster's baritone unwavering. "We now know our main event—it's official: The SFL World Championship will be on the line in a TRIPLE THREAT MATCH as the champion, Cade Mercer, defends against Titan and Matthew!"

The crowd's response resembled a gentle wave rather than the usual tsunami of sound—scattered applause punctuated by a few enthusiastic whoops from die-hard fans in the front rows. A fan in the third row stood, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his cheer, desperately trying to generate the energy that should have filled the building naturally.

"And if that match doesn't get you hyped, let's not forget the absolute chaos that awaits us when Julian St. James steps into the cage with Happy Jack." Jonathan spoke with the confident smoothness of an experienced broadcaster. "The cold, calculating technician versus the deranged wildcard? That one's got Fight of the Year written all over it."

Jonathan pressed on, his smile never wavering even as the camera caught the slight tightening around his eyes.

"Now, folks, tonight will be a bit different than our usual Contenders program. With Kingdom Come next week, we are in the final stretch of preparation. At this time, there are no officially scheduled matches—"

As Jonathan continued speaking to viewers at home through his headset, a ripple of discontent spread through the audience like a cold breeze. The live crowd, receiving the news through the venue's announcer system moments earlier, was still processing the disappointment. Near the barricade, a group of college-aged fans exchanged bewildered glances, one of them pointing at his ticket stub with obvious confusion. Two rows back, a father leaned toward his young son, whispering an explanation that made the boy's shoulders slump with disappointment.

Jonathan's eyes caught the movement, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his face before he reclaimed his professional demeanor.

"Instead, we will be bringing you exclusive interviews, in-depth analysis, and perhaps—just perhaps—some unexpected moments as we head into one of the biggest events in SFL history."

Dex shifted in his seat, the leather of his chair creaking audibly as he leaned forward, knowingly angling his body language to contrast with Jonathan's straight-backed formality. He tapped his index finger against the desk twice—a signal to the producers that he wanted his mic live—before addressing the audience with the blunt honesty that had made him a fan favorite.

"Translation?" He arched a single eyebrow, his voice dry as desert sand, speaking directly to the home viewers through his broadcast headset. "A whole lotta talkin' and not a whole lotta fightin'."

Viewers at home could appreciate Dex's candor, but in the building, the restless crowd continued their own independent conversations. Near the entrance ramp, a small group of fans began a spontaneous "We want fights!" chant that quickly faded, their frustration having nothing to do with the commentary they couldn't hear.

Jonathan's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. Even though the duo had only been working together for 4 weeks now, he and Dex had perfected their dynamic—the polished company man versus the rough-edged straight shooter—but tonight, with the promotion hanging by a thread, Dex's usual antagonism felt dangerous rather than entertaining.

"Dex, you know as well as I do—Kingdom Come is too important. We need to set the stage." His voice carried a subtle warning that only his longtime colleague would recognize, inaudible to the arena audience who saw only two men talking at a desk.

Dex caught it but chose to ignore it, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that bordered on defiance. His gaze moved deliberately toward the empty upper tier before returning to the camera.

"Jon, I get it. You gotta spin this thing all nice and pretty. But let's be real—there's a whole lotta unhappy fighters back there, and this crowd didn't show up for story time."

The production team, sensing danger, cut to a wide shot of the audience. Even with careful framing, the camera couldn't hide the reality: fans checking their phones, a woman in the fifth row stifling a yawn, children squirming restlessly in their seats. A teenager in an SFL hoodie had his arms crossed, disappointment etched across his face—all reactions to the lack of activity in the building, not to the commentary being broadcast to homes across the country.

Dex leaned toward Jonathan, his voice dropping just enough to create the illusion of sharing a confidence with the viewers at home.

"And if you ask me, after everything that's gone down the past couple of days? I don't think Logan Drake knows who the hell's actually gonna show up tonight."

Jonathan's fingers tensed around his pen. The statement hung like a storm cloud, too truthful to deny, too damaging to confirm. In the silence that followed, the background music seemed suddenly louder, filling the gap where his rebuttal should have been.

In the production booth, a frantic wave of activity erupted as the director recognized the dangerous territory they were entering.

"Cut to package! Cut to package NOW!" the producer barked into his headset. "And somebody get Masters in position for his segment!"

On cue, the lights dimmed slightly, and the massive video screen above the entrance ramp flickered to life, displaying a stylized SFL logo that pulsed in time with the music. This visible change in the arena finally caught the audience's attention, their heads turning toward the screen in unison. Jonathan seized the opportunity to recover, his voice rising with practiced enthusiasm to cover the awkward moment for the broadcast audience at home.

"But we are LIVE, and anything can happen in Summit Fighting League! Tonight, we have our second edition Caged Conversations with Mike Masters! And who knows? We may get more than one interview tonight!"

In the building, a smattering of applause followed the appearance of content on the big screen, more reflexive than enthusiastic. In the second row, a loyal fan tried to start a cheer, but it faded before anyone else joined in—their reaction entirely to what they could see, not to Jonathan's words which remained confined to the broadcast.

As the video package began playing on the big screen, Dex reached over and killed his microphone, leaning toward Jonathan with genuine concern replacing his on-screen persona.

"You think anyone's actually coming?" he asked quietly, his words now completely private between the two commentators.

Jonathan's gaze remained fixed forward, his media smile still in place though no camera was currently on them. "For Logan's sake, I hope so."

From his position by the gorilla position—the staging area just behind the entrance curtain—Logan Drake stood with his back against the wall, eyes closed for just a moment as he listened to the broadcast through his earpiece. His face betrayed nothing, but his right hand, hidden from view, had curled into a tight fist at his side.

The damage control had begun, but the night stretched long ahead of them. And somewhere in the bowels of the arena were empty locker rooms waiting for fighters who might never arrive.

The backstage area emanated an unsettling silence that seemed to amplify every footstep, every hushed conversation. Where there should have been the electric madness of fight night—fighters warming up, production crews scurrying between tasks—there was instead a hollow emptiness. Abandoned locker rooms stood with doors ajar. Catering tables remained nearly untouched, the plastic wrap still covering most of the trays. Production assistants huddled in small groups, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern.

Cutting through this funereal atmosphere like a diamond-encrusted knife, came Glenn Sterling. He didn't merely walk through the corridors—he processed, one hand casually adjusting his Italian silk tie, the other swinging with the practiced cadence of a man who knew every eye would turn his way. His bespoke navy suit, tailored to highlight his athletic frame, was pristine despite the downpour outside. Not a drop of rain had dared to mar the Sterling image.

"Evening, darling," he purred to a makeup artist who stared at him with undisguised surprise. "Seems we're running a bit thin on talent tonight, doesn't it?"

While most of the roster had made their statement through absence, Glenn Sterling had made his by showing up—precisely because it positioned him as the exception, the professional, the star who rose while others fell.

Vivian was absent tonight. His wife's moderating presence was nowhere to be found, and without her, the carefully constructed veneer of Southern aristocracy began to slip. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable: a slightly looser step, a more predatory smile, eyes that lingered too long with too little respect. Without Vivian, Glenn's behavior defaulted to that of an aging prom king who still expected everyone to part ways when he walked down the hallway.

He strolled into the catering area, exuding an air of casual entitlement as he scanned the room. A few camera operators leaned against the wall, sipping coffee and scrolling through their phones, while a pair of production assistants quietly went over shot lists at a nearby table. Over by the catering spread, some crew members absentmindedly picked at plates of fruit and cold cuts, the chatter of low conversation barely filling the space.

No one looked up. No one acknowledged his presence. Exactly as Glenn Sterling expected. Glenn approached the buffet table, plucking a grape from the fruit platter with the entitled ease of someone selecting jewelry from a personal collection. He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he surveyed his depleted kingdom.

"Glenn?"

The voice cut through the low murmur of the room, edged with a mix of surprise and exhaustion. Glenn Sterling turned, leisurely chewing on the grape he’d just tossed into his mouth, taking his time before acknowledging the speaker. When he finally met Logan Drake’s gaze, standing in the doorway, posture rigid, expression caught between disbelief and cautious optimism.

"You... you're here? You're HERE?" Logan's voice cracked slightly on the last word, the professional facade crumbling under genuine shock.

Glenn swallowed cleverly, a slow smile spreading across his face as he savored the moment. There was nothing quite like being needed—especially by those who would prefer not to need you.

"Well, of course, I am," Glenn drawled, his Southern accent thickening just enough to drip with condescension. "Far as I know, there's still a show tonight, ain't there?"

Logan exhaled heavily, running a hand through hair that had already been disheveled by that same gesture many times today. His eyes darted around the room, mentally calculating odds, possibilities, contingency plans.

"Yes... well, no... well—" He paused, visibly wrestling with how to frame their predicament. "I didn't know who was going to show up."

Glenn cocked his head, the motion reminiscent of a predator assessing wounded prey. "Ah, you mean the rest of those cowards?" He selected another grape, rolling it between his fingers before tossing it into his mouth with theatrical precision. "Figures. But you don't have to worry about ol' Glenn. I'm a professional. I show up."

The emphasis on "professional" drifted in the air like a challenge. Logan, choosing to ignore the clear dig at his absent roster, pulled the radio from his belt with renewed purpose.

"Has anyone seen Mike Masters? I need Masters to the catering area ASAP." His voice was steady now, the relief of having at least one marquee name in the building providing a momentary reprieve from the evening's catastrophe.

Glenn raised an eyebrow, enjoying the rare sight of the ever-composed Logan Drake scrambling to adapt. "What, you need me for something, boss man?" His tone suggested he already knew the answer but wanted the satisfaction of hearing it explicitly.

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, a subtle tell that revealed just how close he was to his breaking point. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, each word carefully selected.

"Yes, Glenn. I need you to do an interview with Mike. ASAP." The unspoken subtext was clear: You're all I've got. Please don't make this harder than it already is.

At this confirmation of his indispensability, Glenn's entire demeanor shifted. He straightened his already impeccable jacket, then stretched his arms outward in a gesture that managed to be both grandiose and oddly reminiscent of a peacock displaying its plumage.

"Ah, finally, my services are required," he announced to the room at large, his voice carrying to corners where no one was listening. "The Golden Boy saves the day. Again. This deserves a title shot don’t you think Logan?"

Logan's sigh contained multitudes—exhaustion, resignation, perhaps even a tinge of self-loathing for having to rely on Sterling's narcissism to salvage any portion of tonight's show.

"Just... get to gorilla, Glenn."

With a cocky strut that betrayed years of cultivated self-importance, Glenn smoothed a hand through his perfectly styled hair, each strand coaxed into place by an overpriced London stylist. His smile unfurled slowly—a predator's grin of bleached perfection that never quite reached his calculating eyes. A low, theatrical chuckle escaped his lips as he surveyed the situation with the detached amusement of a man who viewed chaos as merely another backdrop for his performance.

At the threshold, he paused for effect—timing his exit as meticulously as he timed his punches. With deliberate slowness, he selected a final grape from the table, examined it momentarily as if judging its worthiness, then placed it between his teeth. Without bothering to look back, he flicked the stem over his shoulder, dismissing it as casually as he dismissed everyone who wasn't Glenn Sterling.

With a practiced adjustment of his collar—a move he'd perfected after studying footage of wrestling legends—he let out a slow, exaggerated chuckle, the kind that dripped with self-satisfaction. "Showtime," he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like a promise. The sound lingered in the corridor behind him as he disappeared down the hallway, already inhabiting the reality where all eyes, all cameras, and all attention gravitated toward their rightful center: himself.

As he disappeared down the corridor, the temporary energy he had injected into the space evaporated, leaving behind the same dreary atmosphere, now tinged with a faint residue of cologne and contempt.

It didn't matter if the roster was gone. Didn't matter if the event was collapsing in real time.

As far as Glenn Sterling was concerned—tonight, he was the only star in the building. And the most infuriating part? Tonight, he might actually be right.

The Lowell Memorial Auditorium sagged under the weight of its own quiet disappointment. The black-curtained sections loomed like reminders of absent energy, the hollow spaces more noticeable than the occupied ones. The crowd wasn’t buzzing with excitement—there was no reason to. No fights had been announced, no real stakes had been set. Instead, a restless groan filled the air, more idle conversation than eager anticipation.

Fans shifted in their seats, some scrolling through their phones, others watching the stage with the detached patience of people waiting for something—anything—to justify their ticket purchase. The night had so far been a string of distractions, small gestures meant to fill time rather than build momentum. The energy, if it could be called that, was less like the electric charge before a big fight and more like the forced patience of an audience enduring a lecture they hadn’t expected to attend.

The hard light of the production rig at the commentary desk projected dark shadows across Jonathan Marks' face, accentuating the gravity in his expression. He leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on the desk, hands clasped together as if in prayer—or perhaps bracing for impact. Beside him, Dex Williams reclined with habitual casualness, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his affected nonchalance.

The producers voice crackled through their earpieces: "Three, two..." A silent finger point indicated they were live.

Jonathan drew a measured breath, his voice emerging with the solemn authority of a war correspondent. "There are fights... and then there are things that go beyond just a fight."

The statement lay between them like an open wound, raw and exposed. Jonathan's index finger tapped once against the desk—a single heartbeat of emphasis.

"Happy Jack versus Julian St. James is not about wins and losses. It's not about championship gold." His voice dropped half an octave. "This is a collision of two entirely different worlds. Two men who could not be more different, yet somehow, have been pulled into the same orbit... destined to tear each other apart."

Dex exhaled audibly, shaking his head with the weary knowledge of a veteran who had seen too much violence to be easily impressed.'

"You're damn right about that, Jon." He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward to match his partner's intensity. "You take one look at Julian St. James and you see excellence. A man who believes in discipline, control, in being the absolute best at what he does."

His hand sliced through the air in a precise, vertical motion—unconsciously mirroring the subject of his analysis.

"A technician. A strategist. He sees this sport as an art form." Dex paused, his expression darkening. "And then..."

The dramatic pause stretched uncomfortably, a verbal representation of the chasm between the two fighters.

"Then there's Happy Jack."

Something shifted in the atmosphere—a subtle change in the air pressure, as if the mere invocation of that name had physical weight. Two rows back, a mother instinctively placed her hand on her young son's shoulder.

Jonathan's jaw muscles visibly tightened, the tendons in his neck briefly pronounced.

"A man who doesn't just fight. He enjoys it." His voice carried notes of both professional objectivity and personal revulsion. "He doesn't care about strategy, about skill, about prestige. He cares about chaos. About pain."

Jonathan turned directly to his broadcast partner, his eyes reflecting the buildings lights like twin warnings.

"And when you put a man like that in the cage with someone like Julian? Someone who prides himself on control? You don't get a match. You get an event."

Dex scoffed—a sharp, percussive sound that cut through the building tension.

"Yeah, but here's the thing—Julian St. James? He ain't just any wrestler." His voice carried the conviction of a man who had shared locker rooms with legends. "He's one of the smartest, most calculated young fighters the wrestling world has ever seen. And Happy Jack? That bastard might be unpredictable, but Julian? He's got a plan for everything."

Dex leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide in a challenge. "The real question is—can you plan for a guy like Happy Jack?"

Jonathan offered no immediate answer. Instead, his gaze drifted toward the screen suspended above the entrance ramp, where the production team was already queuing the video package. The house lights dimmed in synchronized response, plunging the arena into expectant darkness.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jonathan's voice now carried the hushed tone of a man introducing something sacred and profane simultaneously, "take a look."

VIDEO PACKAGE: ORDER vs. CHAOS

The screen ignited with beautiful, high-definition footage of Julian St. James. Every frame was meticulously composed—tracking shots that followed his movements with reverent precision. Slow-motion sequences captured the perfect biomechanics of his technique; the exact angle of his wrist as he applied a submission, the perfect distribution of weight as he executed a takedown.

Julian's voice—cultured, measured, and coldly analytical—provided narration over the visual symphony of controlled violence.

"Fighting is a science."

A montage followed: Julian executing a textbook suplex, his opponent's body describing a perfect arc through the air before meeting the canvas with mathematical precision. Another sequence showed him applying the Sovereign Stretch, his signature submission. His face remained impassive, almost serene, as he systematically dismantled his opponent's will to continue.

"It is not meant to be chaos. It is meant to be mastered."

The screen fractured without warning—digital corruption eating away at the perfect images like acid on film. Colors inverted, sound distorted, then dissolved into static that washed over the building like visual white noise.

When the picture reconstituted, everything had changed.

Gone was the clinical precision of the previous footage. Instead, the camera lurched drunkenly, focus shifting in and out as if the operator were struggling to track a predator through dense undergrowth. The color grading shifted to sickly greens and jaundiced yellows, creating a nauseating, fever-dream aesthetic.

Discordant carnival music wheezed through the speakers—a child's melody warped beyond recognition, played on instruments desperately in need of tuning. The sound crawled up the spine and nested at the base of the skull, a musical representation of wrongness.

Emerging from this sensory assault—Happy Jack.

Not all at once, but in disjointed fragments. A close-up of teeth bared in a grotesque approximation of a smile. Fingers splayed at unnatural angles. A single eye, bloodshot and dilated, staring directly into the camera with predatory focus.

Finally, his full form—head tilted at an angle that suggested broken vertebrae, faded paint smeared across his features like a child's fingerpainting left out in the rain. His shoulders twitched arrhythmically, the movement suggesting some internal struggle between man and something else.

"Mastery?"

His voice slithered through the speakers—childlike one moment, guttural the next—a vocal manifestation of fractured psyche.

The footage cut to Jack in action: driving his elbow repeatedly into an opponent's skull, each impact accompanied by a sickening thud and a spray of crimson that painted his chest in abstract patterns. Another sequence showed him repeatedly slamming his own forehead against the steel cage until blood cascaded down his face, his expression one of ecstatic release rather than pain.

"You don't master violence... you become it."

The screen split violently—torn down the middle like paper ripped by unseen hands. On the left, Julian St. James stood in perfect posture, immaculate in his presentation, eyes cold with analytical intensity. On the right, Happy Jack twitched and contorted, head lolling loosely as if barely attached, lips stretched in a grin that extended far beyond the natural limitations of human anatomy.

Order versus chaos. Control versus abandon. Perfection versus desecration.

The screen held this binary opposition for three excruciating seconds before plunging into darkness. When the house lights returned, they revealed an audience transformed. The previous indifference had evaporated, replaced by a collective tension that hummed through the arena like an electrical current. Fans who had been scrolling through phones now sat forward, expressions caught between fascination and visceral discomfort.

Jonathan Marks passed a hand across his face, the gesture almost ritualistic—as if cleansing himself after proximity to something unclean.

"I don't know what the hell is going to happen at Kingdom Come," he said, his voice betraying rare emotional investment beneath the professional veneer, "but I do know one thing—Julian St. James and Happy Jack are heading toward something we may not be able to come back from."

Dex Williams emitted a low, humorless chuckle that rasped against the microphone.

"I just hope Julian's got more than just a game plan, Jon." He tapped his temple significantly. "'Cause come Kingdom Come? He's stepping into Jack's world."

A world where technique bows to madness. Where precision crumbles before chaos. Where even victory might carry the taint of something irretrievable. The camera lingered on the commentary desk for a weighted moment before cutting away to the production graphic for Kingdom Come—but the implication lingered like smoke after fire. This wasn't going to be a wrestling match. It was going to be a collision.

The steel cage dominated the center of the Lowell Memorial Auditorium like a monument to broken promises—an empty battlefield awaiting warriors who never came. Harsh spotlights reflected off its metal mesh, casting spider-web shadows across a crowd that had grown increasingly restless with each passing minute. For ninety minutes, they had endured interviews and video packages instead of the fights they'd paid to see.

Mike "The Mic" Masters stood alone in the cage, his practiced smile betraying the slightest hint of desperation. He cleared his throat, waiting for his cue as a production assistant frantically signaled from ringside.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Masters announced, his voice carrying the exaggerated enthusiasm of a carnival barker trying to revive a dying show, "please welcome my guest at this time—'The Golden Boy' Glenn Sterling!"

The crowd waited for the familiar orchestral swell of Sterling's entrance theme, the golden spotlights, the choreographed pyrotechnics that typically heralded the arrival of SFL's self-proclaimed royalty.

None came.

Instead, Glenn Sterling emerged through the curtain, stepping onto the entrance ramp with intentional elegance. The absence of his signature entrance felt more conspicuous than any grand arrival could have. He wore a bespoke navy suit that probably cost more than most fans earned in a month, sunglasses perched on his perfect nose despite the dimly lit building.

A ripple of boos greeted him—halfhearted at first, then gathering momentum as he paused to button his jacket with theatrical slowness. Sterling absorbed the crowd's derision like a man basking in applause, his smirk suggesting that hatred and adoration were equally satisfying currencies.

"Look at this asshole," muttered a fan in the third row, loud enough for those around him to hear.

"Shows up in a suit when we paid to see him fight."

Sterling sauntered down the ramp, maintaining the unhurried pace of someone who knew he was the only attraction left in a crumbling show. To the careful observer, however, subtle tells betrayed his composure—the slight tightness in his shoulders, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw when a particularly loud "YOU TAPPED OUT" chant rippled through a section of the crowd.

He climbed the steel steps with the same affected nonchalance, pausing at the top to adjust his French cuffs, revealing a flash of a gold watch that caught the light. When he finally stepped through the doors, he did so with the air of a man entering his private club rather than a combat arena.

Masters extended the microphone with a welcoming gesture, but Sterling snatched it from his hand with imperious disdain.

"Go ahead, Mike—I know you have your questions, gotta get your little soundbites," Sterling drawled, his Southern accent dripping with the polished charm he wielded whenever he wanted to remind people, he was the biggest name in the room. "Those will have to wait, ‘cause tonight, I got something to say."

Masters retreated to the corner without protest, recognizing the unspoken hierarchy. When Glenn Sterling wanted the spotlight, everyone else became background scenery. Sterling pivoted toward the main camera, his movements precise and practiced. He removed his sunglasses with a flourish, tucking them into his breast pocket before addressing the lens directly—looking past it to the invisible audience at home.

"Last week, I admit, Colton Hayes got lucky."

The statement landed like a match on gasoline. Boos cascaded down from every section of the arena, accompanied by derisive laughter and scattered chants of "BULLSHIT" that even the broadcast team couldn't completely mute for the television audience.

Sterling raised a manicured hand, dismissing their reaction with imperial contempt.

"You people can believe what you want," he continued, his voice hardening, "but facts don't care about your feelings. I had a bad night. It happens, some might say...the loss was scripted." His fingers twitched slightly at his side—a microscopic tell that betrayed the wound to his ego. "Now let’s not get it twisted, baby—what you saw last week? That wasn’t Glenn Sterling at his best. That wasn’t The Golden Boy turned all the way up. That was me dancin’ to Colton’s tune, in a match built for his game. I made a mistake, and I—"

He stopped abruptly, as if the very acknowledgment of fallibility caused him physical pain. The crowd leaned forward, sensing the crack in his armor.

"—I won't make it again."

A fan in the front row cupped his hands around his mouth: "YOU TAPPED LIKE A BITCH!"

The insult visibly landed. Sterling's nostrils flared briefly before he reclaimed his composure, beginning to pace the cage with the restless energy of a predator whose territorial claim had been challenged.

"I know Colton Hayes ain't in the building," he continued, voice rising to overcome the growing hostility. "Let's be honest, the man doesn't have the stones to show up here tonight after pulling off the second biggest fluke win of his career." His pacing intensified, each step punctuating his words. "So, since he's probably sitting at home icing his joints like the broken-down mongrel he is, I'll say this nice and loud so he can hear me all the way from whatever hole he's licking his wounds in—"

The opening power chord of Colton Hayes' entrance theme slammed through the arena speakers like a thunderclap. The effect on Sterling was instantaneous and profound. His entire body seized up, speech dying mid-sentence. His eyes darted toward the entrance curtain with the instinctive alarm of prey sensing a predator.

The reaction was lukewarm at best—a mild stir rather than an eruption. A few scattered cheers rippled through the audience, more out of relief at seeing another body in the building than any real excitement. Some fans clapped, others lifted their phones, but the energy in the room remained far from electric.

At the commentary desk, Jonathan Marks overcompensated, nearly knocking over his water bottle as he lurched forward. His voice climbing with manufactured enthusiasm as he leaned into his microphone.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed, nearly knocking over his water bottle in the process. "Colton Hayes is here!"

Dex Williams' laughter carried notes of both surprise and satisfaction. "Yeah… guess he is. Looks like The Iron Wolf has something to say."

Colton Hayes emerged through the curtain with none of Sterling's theatrical flair. He stood motionless for a moment, silhouetted against the entrance lights, his powerful frame unmistakable even in street clothes. His hoodie hung open over a plain black t-shirt, revealing glimpses of the white athletic tape wrapped around his hands and wrists—a fighter ready for war, not pageantry.

Rain had soaked him completely, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water still dripping from his clothing onto the entrance ramp. He hadn't bothered finding shelter from the storm or drying off backstage. The moment he'd arrived, he had come straight for Sterling.

His expression remained unnervingly neutral as he began his walk down the ramp—no playing to the crowd, no acknowledgment of their halfhearted cheers. His focus locked onto Sterling with predatory intensity, never wavering even as fans reached out to slap his shoulders in support.

In the cage, Sterling’s composure cracked. The smug confidence that had dripped from his every word moments ago was replaced with simmering frustration. His hands shot to his collar, yanking at his tie before tearing it off completely. Then, with a sudden burst of fury, he ripped off his jacket and flung it onto the mat with a loud slap. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he locked eyes with Colton Hayes.

Mouth twisting into a snarl, Sterling stomped forward, planting his feet wide before throwing his arms out.

"COME ON!" he mouthed, his face contorted in challenge.

The crowd, mild for most of the night, finally stirred with interest as Sterling beckoned Hayes into the cage, the tension between them thickening like a storm ready to break. The one thing you could always count on Glenn was overselling anything he was involved in.

Colton reached the cage steps and ascended them without pause, his gaze never leaving Sterling's face. When he stepped through the doors, the difference between the two men became stark—Sterling in his thousand-dollar suit versus Hayes in rain-soaked street clothes; practiced sophistication versus raw authenticity.

They stood fifteen feet apart, the air between them charged with unspoken hostility. Before the tension could snap, Jason McCarthy and Leo Torres rushed in from the back, stepping between them, arms outstretched to prevent any unsanctioned chaos. Neither moved, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Sterling broke first, unable to bear the silence that stripped him of his greatest weapon—control through words.

"Oh, well, well, well," Glenn forced out, his voice strained beneath the weight of his own fury. His face was flushed a deep shade of red, veins subtly visible along his temple as his chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths. The grin he mustered was anything but genuine—teeth bared in something more akin to a snarl than a smile, his eyes dark with barely contained rage. "Look who decided to show up."

Colton stood still, unmoving, his breath steady and measured. Water dripped from his soaked clothes, pooling in dark splotches on the canvas beneath him. His expression betrayed nothing—no amusement, no anger, just an unshakable presence that pressed down on the moment like a weight.

The silence grew thick, stretching across the building with an oppressive stillness. Glenn's furious breathing remained the only audible sound, his chest heaving as he fought to maintain the façade of composure. His forced grin twitched at the corners, faltering under the sheer lack of reaction from Colton. His eyes flicked briefly to Mike Masters, searching for an out, a shift, any sign that the tension would break.

None came.

Finally, Colton moved, extending his hand toward Masters with purposeful slowness. The interviewer immediately understood, placing the backup microphone in Hayes' waiting palm. When Colton finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled—the dangerous calm before a violent storm.

"You talk a lot, Sterling. But the only thing anyone remembers about last week is you screaming like a stuck pig while I twisted your ankle to shit."

The crowd reacted, the raw honesty cutting through weeks of corporate spin and sanitized promos. A teenage fan jumped onto his seat, both middle fingers raised toward Sterling. The words struck Sterling like physical blows. Red blotches appeared on his neck, climbing toward his face as his carefully constructed facade crumbled. His jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly at his temple.

Colton took a deliberate step forward, his boots pressing firmly against the mat. It was a small movement, but it carried weight—shrinking the space between them just enough to make his presence undeniable, to impose himself without giving Jason McCarthy and Leo Torres reason to intervene.

"You want another shot? You think you can go the distance?" Colton’s voice was steady, unwavering.

Glenn, still catching his breath, ran a hand through his hair before straightening his posture. His face, still red with frustration, contorted into something resembling confidence. "I do, Hayes. I do." He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain control. "I can pin you a hundred times in one night. I can make you submit a thousand."

Colton barely blinked. "Fine. Prove it."

Glenn lowered his mic slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied Colton's face, trying to read between the lines. His smirk faltered, uncertainty creeping into his expression. Colton leaned in just a fraction more.

"Iron. Man. Match. Thirty minutes. Whoever racks up the most pinfalls or submissions by the end? Wins. No excuses. No referee stoppage. No questions asked."

The crowd's response was the loudest it had been all evening, their collective voice becoming a physical force that seemed to make the cage itself vibrate. In the front row, a father lifted his young son onto his shoulders, both of them shouting their approval.

Sterling's expression cycled rapidly through shock, fear, and then—most dangerously—wounded pride. For a critical moment, he looked like a cornered animal searching desperately for escape. Then survival instinct gave way to ego.

He lunged forward, snatching the microphone from Colton's hand with such force that feedback screeched through the speakers. His voice emerged strained, higher-pitched than his carefully cultivated baritone.

"ME? TAP AGAIN? No, no, no, no, ohhhh I don't think so."

Colton's mouth curved into the barest suggestion of a smile—not one of amusement, but of a predator who had just watched prey stumble into a trap.

"Then put your money where your mouth is."

Sterling's hesitation was brief but unmistakable—a moment of clarity penetrating the fog of his wounded pride. His eyes darted toward the exit, calculating the cost of retreat versus the price of commitment.

Then, like a gambler doubling down on a losing hand, he straightened his spine, tugged his designer jacket into perfect alignment, and manufactured the cocky grin that had graced magazine covers and promotional posters for years.

"Fine. You got your match." Each word emerged clipped, precise, as if speaking through pain. "And when I outlast you, outthink you, and outwrestle you for 30 straight minutes, it'll be MY name cemented in history—not yours."

Colton held Sterling's gaze for one more beat of excruciating silence. Then, with casual dismissiveness, he tossed the microphone over his shoulder. It clattered across the canvas, its impact briefly echoing through the arena's sound system.

The message was clear: Words were over. Action would follow.

Jason and Leo positioned themselves between the two men with practiced urgency. Neither fighter protested the intervention, but neither stepped back either—two planets locked in mutual orbit by the gravity of their hatred.

Jonathan Marks practically vibrated with excitement. "I don't believe what we just witnessed! Kingdom Come will now feature the first-ever 30 MINUTE IRON MAN MATCH in SFL history!"

Dex Williams leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile playing across his face. "Colton Hayes just suckered Sterling into the fight of his life."

As Jason McCarthy finally convinced Colton to back toward the cage door, he maintained unblinking eye contact with Sterling—a psychological dominance as effective as any physical attack. Only when he reached the edge of the cage did he finally turn his back, dismissing Sterling with the confidence of a man who had already won the true contest.

Left alone in the center of the cage, Glenn Sterling stood frozen in place. His manicured hands had curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He picked up his suit jacket off the canvas. As the realization of what he had committed to settled over him, his face drained of color, leaving only two bright spots of anger high on his cheekbones.

The producer voice crackled through the technical team's headsets: "Cut to commercial!"

As the broadcast prepared to fade to black, the camera lingered on Glenn Sterling’s face—his signature smirk firmly in place, but his eyes betraying something deeper. He had gotten what he wanted, a rematch, but not on his terms. It was Colton who had dictated the stipulations, who had backed him into a corner without throwing a single punch.

Sterling’s expression remained poised, calculated, but there was an unmistakable flicker of hesitation beneath the bravado. The weight of a thirty-minute Iron Man match settled into his shoulders, the reality of what he had just agreed to creeping in.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head and a slow, deliberate chuckle, Glenn forced his smirk wider—masking doubt with practiced arrogance. He had his rematch. And no matter how it had been set, he was still Glenn Sterling.

The final shot as the show faded to black: Glenn Sterling, looking every bit the man who had talked his way into a fight he wasn’t sure he could win.

Returning from commercial break, the production feed transitioned with practiced precision to the commentary desk. The bright television lights caught the polished surface, creating a halo effect around Jonathan Marks who sat alone, the broadcasting veteran who had narrated some of sports most historic moments. The absence of his usual counterpart was conspicuous, an empty chair that seemed to speak volumes about the night's unpredictability.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Contenders, live from the historic Lowell Memorial Auditorium—and what a night it has already been," Jonathan intoned, his baritone carrying the rich texture of bourbon and leather-bound books. Each syllable emerged measured and deliberate, a verbal anchor in increasingly turbulent waters. The production lights caught the distinguished silver at his temples, lending him the gravitas of an elder statesman presiding over consequential events.

The producer called for a sweeping shot, and Camera Three panned across the crowd in a fluid arc, capturing the modest crowd of 1,000 spectators. Though small…unacceptable, by PMG standards, their collective energy seemed to compress in the intimate venue, creating an atmosphere of concentrated intensity. Every cheer, every reaction reverberated against the auditorium's weathered walls—a century-old building that had hosted everything from political rallies to amateur boxing tournaments. The space felt alive with history, its confines transforming even whispered conversations into something electric and immediate.

Jonathan leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together—a gesture both contemplative and authoritative. When he spoke again, his voice modulated with the precision of a concert pianist, building anticipation with each carefully selected word.

"We are just days away from Kingdom Come, and tonight, the final pieces are being set in place." His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, inviting the audience into a shared confidence. "We've already seen tensions rise, challenges issued, and the stakes elevated to heights few could have anticipated. And yet, we're not done yet."

A red light blinked on his earpiece—the director signaling something urgent from the production truck. Jonathan absorbed whatever message came through without breaking his rhythm, the only evidence a slight tightening around his eyes.

His voice dropped half an octave, the practiced shift of a broadcaster who knew exactly how to hold an audience's attention through tonal variation alone. The camera pushed in tighter, framing his face in a shot that eliminated all distractions.

"And with what we just witnessed before the break..." He paused, allowing a heartbeat of silence that felt like a held breath. "Well, let's just say things are only getting more unpredictable."

The shot held on Jonathan as he exhaled, a momentary break in his professional facade revealing something more genuine—concern, perhaps, or the weary recognition of a man watching carefully constructed plans unravel in real time. Jonathan Marks leaned forward with the posture of a man about to deliver a sermon. The production lights caught the silver at his temples, lending him the gravitas of an elder statesman. His manicured hands clasped together as his voice dropped to a register reserved for moments of genuine historical importance.

"It all comes down to this," he intoned, each word measured and deliberate. "Three fighters. One championship. And the fight that will define Summit Fighting League at Kingdom Come."

Dex Williams returned to the desk and sat back down as he exhaled audibly. The former fighter's scarred knuckles drummed once against the desk—a percussive punctuation to his partner's declaration.

"Yeah, Jon, this ain't just any main event. It ain't just another championship fight." His voice carried the authenticity of someone who had shed blood in similar circumstances. "This is a collision course. We've got three men, all with something to prove, and only one walks out as the king of SFL."

Jonathan nodded, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the camera—a direct line to the viewers who would determine the promotion's survival.

"Titan. Matthew. Cade Mercer. Three very different paths that have all led to this moment."

He raised his right hand, index finger extended in the first of three points.

"Titan. The self-proclaimed greatest wrestler ever." His tone shifted subtly, carrying notes of professional skepticism. "A man who believes the world owes him its attention. A man who has made damn sure that every camera, every light, every moment... is focused on him."

Dex's lips curved into a knowing smile, the expression of a man who recognized a necessary evil.

"Titan ain't wrong about one thing, Jon." He leaned back, crossing tattooed forearms over his chest. "He does get attention. Whether you love him, whether you hate him—he demands the spotlight. And now? Now, he's got a shot at the biggest prize in SFL."

Jonathan pivoted slightly toward his broadcast partner, their practiced rhythm continuing as he raised a second finger.

"And then there's Matthew." His voice warmed perceptibly, carrying the respect reserved for those who earn their place rather than demand it. "A fighter's fighter. A man who has bled for this sport, who has put his body through hell time and time again. And now? Now he gets his second shot at the belt."

Dex nodded in approval, his expression shifting to one of genuine appreciation.

"You know what I respect about Matthew, Jon?" The question was rhetorical, a setup for his own analysis. "He ain't about the talk. He ain't about the politics. The man just fights. And if Titan thinks he's gonna walk into Kingdom Come and just breeze past a guy like Matthew? He's in for another rude awakening."

Jonathan straightened in his chair, his posture signaling the gravity of his next point. When he spoke, his voice carried a reverence that demanded attention.

"And then... there's the champion."

He allowed the statement to hang in the air—a moment of deliberate theater that drew the audience deeper into the narrative.

"Cade Mercer. The first ever Strike Force Legends winner. The first-ever SFL World Champion." Each accolade was delivered with measured appreciation. "The man who fought through an entire tournament, who beat the best this company had to offer... and yet, somehow, somehow, he's still got something to prove."

Dex scoffed, a sound that carried both disbelief and understanding. He shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate.

"That's the thing about being the first, Jon." His voice dropped an octave, carrying the weight of someone who recognized an unjust reality. "People are always gonna question you. Always gonna look for a reason to doubt you. And now? After that Tapout article? After the whispers about Strike Force Legends?"

He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, emphasizing his next point.

"Mercer ain't just defending his title—he's fighting for his legacy."

Jonathan nodded solemnly, then gestured toward the screen suspended above the entrance ramp. The house lights dimmed in synchronized response, plunging the arena into expectant darkness as the crowd's murmurs faded to silence.

VIDEO PACKAGE: THE CROWN AND THE BLOOD

Darkness.

The unmistakable sound of labored breathing filled the speakers—a fighter's exhausted gasps after battle, intimate and visceral.

A single spotlight pierced the black void, revealing Cade Mercer standing alone in the center of an empty cage. The SFL World Championship rested on his shoulder, its gold plates catching the harsh light. The image was deliberately slowed, creating a dreamlike quality as Cade's fingers traced the engraved logo on the belt's centerpiece.

"I EARNED this." Cade's voice—resolute, uncompromising—echoed through the building.

The image dissolved, replaced by Titan standing on an elevated platform, a spotlight creating harsh shadows across his arrogant features. He held a microphone with theatrical casualness, his body language suggesting a man performing rather than communicating.

"Earned? Nah, kid." His voice dripped with condescension. "You were just the first one through the door."

The footage fractured, splitting into rapid-fire moments of Titan’s calculated disruption—an orchestrated display of arrogance and provocation that had defined his presence in Summit Fighting League from the start.

Titan interrupting the start of Matthew & Cade's first match. Sitting there mocking them as they fought. His slow exaggerated clap from the announcers table.

Titan seizing every microphone, every interview, every promotional opportunity like a man possessed—his voice dominating press conferences, his presence looming over every segment, his words a relentless campaign of dismissal and derision aimed at both fighters.

"This sport ain't about who did what first—it's about who's best."

The screen abruptly cut to Matthew, seated alone in a dimly lit Dublin pub. His scarred knuckles wrapped around a pint of stout, the dark beer catching what little light there was. His eyes burned with quiet fury as he stared directly into the camera. Unlike Titan's performed intensity, Matthew's anger smoldered beneath the surface—authentic, dangerous.

"They want ta question me? Question if I threw the bloody fight to Mercer? Are they off their heads?"

The footage accelerated into a brutal montage of Matthew's career: blood cascading down his face after a headbutt split his eyebrow; his fist connecting with an opponent's jaw in slow-motion, sweat and saliva spraying from the impact; his body slumping against the cage after a five-round war, victorious but devastated.

"I don't LET anyone win, ya feckin' eejits. Not now, not ever." Each word landed like a sledgehammer.

The music swelled—orchestral strings building tension beneath pounding percussion that matched a heartbeat under pressure. The screen divided into three vertical panels: Titan on the left, his chin raised in defiance; Matthew on the right, intensity radiating from his battle-worn features; Cade Mercer in the center, the championship belt gleaming against his shoulder.

Their voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of determination and ego:

"I'm the REAL main event." — Titan's declaration, sharp and insistent.

"I scrap for meself, an’ no one else." — Matthew's assertion, raw and unfiltered.

"You wanna doubt me? Come take this from me." — Cade's challenge, quiet but absolute.

The music reached its crescendo, then abruptly cut to silence.

A final image appeared—the three men standing face-to-face in a triangular formation, each separated by mere inches, none willing to concede ground. No words were necessary; their expressions told the story. Three different men. Three different journeys. One destination.

The screen faded to black, leaving only a single line of text:

KINGDOM COME. THREE ENTER. ONE SURVIVES.

When the buildings lights returned, the atmosphere had undergone a subtle but unmistakable transformation. The previous murmurs had crystallized into focused anticipation. Even the most casual viewers now leaned forward in their seats, drawn into the gravitational pull of the impending collision.

Jonathan exhaled slowly, composing himself before addressing the audience at home once more.

"Three men. One championship." His voice conveyed a sense of ultimate conclusion. "And at Kingdom Come, the question will finally be answered—who is the real king of Summit Fighting League?"

Dex's response came with a knowing chuckle, the sound of a man who had witnessed enough combat to understand its transformative power.

"No matter who walks out with that belt, Jon..." He shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate. "They ain't walking out the same person they were when they walked in."

As the broadcast transitioned to its final segment, the statement settled in the air like smoke after fire:

This wasn't merely competition. This wasn't just athletics. This was an existential battle for identity, for legacy, for supremacy. And when the smoke cleared, only one man would rise from the ashes, reborn as something greater—or broken by the weight of his ambition.

Contenders returned from its final commercial break. The crowd settled into a reluctant hush as the show approached its conclusion. The atmosphere carried the melancholy of a party winding down too early, with scattered conversations and the occasional cough echoing through half-empty sections. Production assistants moved with hushed efficiency in the shadows, unplugging cables and dismantling equipment with the practiced resignation of a crew that knew they were on a sinking ship.

Jonathan Marks squared his shoulders, trying to summon his second wind. The weight of the evening's struggles sat in the tight lines around his eyes, but his voice, when it came, carried none of that burden.

In his earpiece, the producer's voice counted down: "Three, two..."

Jonathan leaned into the camera with the practiced enthusiasm of a man who had sold ice to Eskimos and could damn well sell a troubled promotion to a skeptical audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are just seven days away from Kingdom Come—where careers will be defined, legacies will be forged, and the very foundation of Summit Fighting League will be changed forever!"

He drew closer to the camera, creating an intimacy that made each viewer feel personally addressed. His eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold under the production lights—sparkled with manufactured but convincing excitement.

"We've got a stacked card, starting with a match that could very well descend into absolute madness. Julian St. James—calculating, methodical, a master of control—will step inside the cage with the unhinged and unpredictable Happy Jack!"

As Jonathan spoke these words to the television audience at home through his headset, the screen inside the building simultaneously displayed a promotional graphic for the Julian St. James vs. Happy Jack match. Even in the sparse crowd, the sight of Happy Jack's disturbing image triggered a visceral response—nervous laughter, uneasy shifting in seats, the tension of anticipation. Near the front row, a father unconsciously placed a protective hand on his son's shoulder, reacting to the visual reminder of the notorious fighter, not to Jonathan's commentary which remained inaudible to anyone in the arena.

Dex Williams remained uncharacteristically quiet beside Jonathan, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression suggesting a man inventorying a burning building. His knee bounced beneath the desk—the restless energy of a former fighter uncomfortable with sitting still through disaster. Jonathan pressed forward, his broadcaster's baritone gaining momentum like a train determined to reach its destination regardless of obstacles on the track.

"Then, signed just moments ago—Colton Hayes and Glenn Sterling. One more time. But this ain't just any fight, folks. This is thirty minutes. Thirty minutes where every second counts. An Iron Man match to settle the score!"

At this, Dex finally animated, releasing a low whistle that carried equal parts appreciation and disbelief. He leaned forward, tattooed forearms coming to rest on the desk as he shook his head.

"You wanna talk about bad blood, Jon?" The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a half-smile. "Glenn Sterling's still walking funny from that ankle lock last week. But this time? He's got 30 whole minutes to make sure he's the one doing the breaking."

Jonathan nodded, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the note cards he'd prepared. Despite the chaos of the night, despite fighters no-showing and segments falling apart, the professionalism that had defined his career prevented even the slightest tremor in his voice as he pivoted to the main attraction.

"And in our main event—the biggest fight in SFL history." His cadence slowed, giving weight to each word for the television audience at home. "For the first time, the SFL World Championship will be defended at a pay-per-view. Cade Mercer. Titan. Matthew. Three warriors. One title."

As Jonathan delivered this buildup through his broadcast headset, the building’s screen yet again displayed footage of the three-way championship graphic, complete with dramatic slow-motion highlights of each fighter. A scattered applause rose from the audience in response to these visuals—more enthusiastic than the turnout suggested. In the third row, a group of fans pumped their fists at the sight of their favorites colliding on screen, their excitement a flame refusing to be extinguished by the night's disappointments. A child near the barricade held up a handmade sign: "CADE STILL THE CHAMP" in carefully drawn block letters, waving it higher as Mercer's image dominated the display.

Jonathan's eyes caught this moment of genuine passion, and something shifted in his delivery—a flicker of authentic hope breaking through the professional veneer.

"Titan believes this is his moment." Each word landed with the precision of a master orator. "Matthew has fought for everything he's ever had. And Cade Mercer—our first-ever champion—walks in with everything to lose."

The producers voice crackled in their earpieces: "Ninety seconds to close."

Dex tapped a pen rhythmically against the desk, the sound creating a heartbeat beneath his words. When he spoke, the usual performative cynicism gave way to something more genuine.

"All I know is someone's walking out with that belt…" His gaze drifted momentarily toward the arena ceiling, as if seeing beyond it to the uncertain future. "And I promise you, someone else is walking out a changed man."

Jonathan exhaled, his posture relaxing just slightly as they rounded the final corner. He looked directly into the hard camera, creating one last moment of connection with the viewers at home—a bridge between the troubled present and a promised future.

"History will be made next Sunday. Do not miss it. Kingdom Come—live, only on pay-per-view!"

The SFL logo materialized in the lower right corner of the screen, the end credits beginning their slow crawl upward. The production assistant's fingers hovered over switches, prepared to fade to black on the producer's command.

The red light on Camera One blinked three times—the universal signal that they were seconds from going off air. In those final moments, the professional facade that had carried them through the night began to dissolve. Dex's shoulders slumped with the weight of pretense finally set down. He stretched, arching his back with the casual relief of a man clock-watching through his shift, and let out a heavy breath.

Then, in the microsecond before the broadcast officially ended, his voice—casual, unfiltered, carrying the unvarnished truth—was caught by a microphone that should have already been dead.

"Boy, that was a rough show."

Jonathan's head snapped toward his broadcast partner, eyes widening with professional horror. Years of broadcasting discipline shattered in an instant as naked panic flashed across his face. For a fraction of a second, viewers witnessed the unfiltered reality behind the carefully maintained illusion—a promotion in crisis, a show in shambles, a future uncertain.

Then the screen cut to black. In production trucks and living rooms across the country, the impact of those five words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion.

The feed ended.

Logan Drake stood motionless at the edge of the dismantled entrance ramp, watching the skeletal remains of Contenders being stripped to bare metal and cable. The hollow echo of roadies' boots against concrete mixed with the metallic clang of equipment being disassembled, creating a discordant symphony that perfectly matched his mood. Under the harsh work lights, shadows stretched across the arena floor like accusing fingers.

This wasn't how he'd imagined his career unfolding when he would daydream about the future. He'd been brought in to build something lasting, something significant. Now he was just trying to keep it from collapsing entirely.

A production assistant nodded respectfully as she passed, carrying a coil of audio cable over her shoulder. Logan returned the gesture automatically, his mind already calculating variables, contingencies, possibilities. The building had emptied within minutes of Dex's hot mic disaster—not that it had been particularly full to begin with. That unfiltered moment of truth might have been the most authentic thing broadcast all night.

His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against his forearm as he mentally cataloged the evening's mixed results. Tonight's Contenders had clung to life through sheer force of will and a few fortunate breaks—Glenn Sterling's ego-driven appearance, Colton Hayes' surprise arrival, video packages meticulously crafted to fill time. The show had limped across the finish line, bloodied but breathing.

Small victories. Not enough.

Logan's focus had already shifted to the mountain looming before him: Kingdom Come.

Eight hours.

The number hung in his mind like a guillotine blade. Eight hours was the window granted by the venue—not a minute more. Eight hours to load in, set up, execute a professional-grade pay-per-view, tear down, and vacate. In the industry, such a compressed timeframe would be ambitious for a regional show. For what was supposed to be SFL's defining moment? It was nearly impossible.

And now Colton Hayes and Glenn Sterling had just locked in a 30-minute Iron Man Match.

"Jesus Christ," Logan muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

Thirty minutes of match time in an what was originally a three-hour window, now a two-hour window. Thirty minutes of a show that would need to be choreographed with military precision, down to the second. No room for error, no space for improvisation.

Logan pulled his leather-bound planner from his jacket pocket, flipping to a fresh page. His pen hovered over the paper before he began sketching a rough timeline. The irony wasn't lost on him. Three matches…Four matches tops. That was the realistic maximum for Kingdom Come—not the bloated supercard they'd initially envisioned, but what they could actually execute within their constraints.

• Julian St. James vs. Happy Jack – Logan chewed his bottom lip as he considered this volatile pairing. Happy Jack was the human embodiment of chaos; his matches defied prediction, structure, even the basic laws of physics at times. Julian was methodical, precise—but would inevitably be drawn into Jack's anarchic orbit. Logan wrote 15 minutes and circled it, knowing full well it could easily run longer.

• Colton Hayes vs. Glenn Sterling – Iron Man Match – A fixed 30 minutes in the cage, but Logan knew better than to budget only that. Entrances for Sterling alone could stretch to three minutes given his propensity for theatrics. Post-match, medical checks, transitions... He grimly wrote 40 minutes and underlined it twice. No flexibility there.

• Titan vs. Matthew vs. Cade Mercer (SFL World Championship Match) – The cornerstone of the entire event. The match that would determine not just a champion, but the future direction and legitimacy of the promotion itself. This needed breathing room, needed dramatic peaks and valleys, needed to feel like a genuine athletic spectacle rather than a rushed affair. Logan reluctantly allocated 25 minutes minimum, knowing even that might not be enough.

Adding it all up, he was left with perhaps 20-25 minutes of wiggle room for entrances, video packages, and any necessary backstage segments. The math was brutal, unforgiving—and that was only three matches. He knew he needed one more match in addition.

Logan stepped back as a forklift moved past, carrying sections of the dismantled cage toward the loading dock. His reflection in a nearby monitor showed dark circles under his eyes—evidence of three consecutive nights with minimal sleep. Tomorrow wouldn't offer any relief.

He began mentally triaging options. Could they compress entrances? Reduce video package lengths? Perhaps run the post-show wrap-up in the parking lot to buy an extra five minutes inside the venue? Each option carried its own set of compromises, none of them ideal.

The final few production team members were now zipping equipment cases and exchanging weary nods—veterans of a difficult campaign acknowledging each other's survival. Logan recognized the look in their eyes; it was the same one he saw in the mirror each morning. Exhaustion mixed with determination, pride eroded by pragmatism.

"Mr. Drake?" A venue security guard approached, keys jangling at his belt. "We need to lock up in twenty minutes."

Logan nodded. "We'll be clear."

Another deadline. Always another deadline.

Kingdom Come wouldn't have the luxury of finding its rhythm organically. Every segment would need to hit its mark precisely, every transition executed flawlessly. One delayed entrance, one extended promo, one unexpected injury, and they'd be facing the nightmare scenario: a main event cut short by venue constraints, an unsatisfied audience, and irreparable damage to what remained of the promotion's credibility.

This was unquestionably his problem. Victor had created the disaster but conveniently disappeared, leaving Logan to engineer a solution from the wreckage. No reinforcements were coming. No additional resources would materialize. No divine intervention would extend their eight-hour window.

Logan walked slowly toward the exit, the empty building yawning behind him like a hungry mouth. He pulled out his phone, opening his notes app as he pushed through the double doors into the rain-slicked parking lot. The cold night air carried the scent of wet asphalt and impending challenge.

He didn't have time for doubt. He certainly didn't have time for sleep. He had a pay-per-view to time down to the second, a promotion to save, and a career balancing on the knife-edge of an eight-hour window. His fingers began typing, each keystroke an act of defiance against the weight pressing down on his shoulders. One fight at a time. One minute at a time. One second at a time.

Eight hours. Four matches. No margin for error. No plan B.