Bitter Winds

It was a new year—only five days in, and Logan Drake found himself at a new conference table. The rented hotel conference room grew more confining with each passing moment as Logan Drake shifted in the worn folding chair, a new logo hanging crookedly on a portable banner stand behind him. This time though the name read: 

Jolt Fighting. 

The thin carpet and water-stained ceiling tiles were a far cry from the sleek offices of Peak Media Group where he had once pitched his electrifying vision for Strike Force Legends. Outside these walls, nothing was pristine. Winter had swallowed Iowa whole, turning the roads into slick ribbons of ice, the sky into an endless stretch of gray. The bitter wind had followed him inside, clinging to his skin even as he sat under the oppressive heat of the press room lights.

Worlds apart from New York.

In Manhattan, winter was sharp but alive—horns blaring, steam rising from sewer grates, the glow of neon cutting through the early dusk. Here, it was muted. Flat. Isolated. The only sound beyond these walls was the wind howling through the barren trees, like a distant warning to get away.

An ownership group- if you could call it that. Was a group of individuals scattered across the independent wrestling scene. They had seen the success that Strike Force Legends had and came together to form Jolt Fighting. The Jolt executives, in their mismatched suits and forced smiles, took turns at the dented podium, their voices brimming with a manufactured enthusiasm that couldn't quite mask the hint of desperation underneath. As they spoke of modest growth and cautious optimism, Logan's mind drifted to the packed arena and thunderous crowd of his tournament, a stark contrast to this budget affair scraped together in a secondhand space.

As he sat there, staring at the rows of cameras and microphones pointed in his direction like loaded weapons, his mind wasn’t in Iowa. It wasn’t even in this year. It was back in New York. Back in a different boardroom, seated at a different conference table. One with Victor Hayes, Sebastian Greer, Ollie McClain, and Genny Vaughn watching him, waiting, as he laid out his vision for Strike Force Legends. He could still hear the echo of his own voice—clear, confident, undeniable.

"This is the future of combat sports."

Now?

Now he was here.

The room was different, the faces unfamiliar, but the scene was the same. Another conference table. Another round of executives, speaking in carefully rehearsed statements. Members of the Jolt Fighting ownership group took turns addressing the press, their polished smiles performing for the cameras.

Richard Turner, his shirt collar fraying slightly, leaned into the microphone with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "With Logan's experience and passion, Jolt Fighting is poised to carve out our niche in the MMA world, even with our limited resources." 

Logan swallowed a bitter chuckle. Limited resources. In other words, a shoestring operation a world away from the glitz and glamor he'd once commanded. The peeling wallpaper and buzzing fluorescent lights seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of just how far he'd fallen from those heady days.

But what choice did he have? Peak Media, after weeks of ominous silence, had made it clear that Strike Force Legends was dead in the water. No explanation. No offer to keep him on in some other capacity. Just a terse message leaving him out in the cold.

So here he was, clinging to this threadbare lifeline, trying to pretend that a rented hotel room and a handful of reporters amounted to some kind of fresh start. He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in his back from the unforgiving chair. If this was his shot to stay in the game, to keep some fingernail-grip on the world he loved, he'd take it. 

As they spoke about the future, Logan barely heard them. The words floated through the room, but they didn’t land. His mind was still stuck on a different stage, a different moment—one where the crowd’s roar had shaken the rafters, where Cade Mercer stood victorious, holding the first-ever Strike Force Legends Trophy high above his head.

That had been real.

This? This felt like someone else’s future.

“We couldn’t be more excited to have Logan join the Jolt Fighting family,” one of the executives declared, his voice steady and confident. “His experience, his vision, and his dedication to the fight business make him the perfect addition to our ownership team. Logan understands what it takes to build something special, and with him on board, we’re poised to take Jolt Fighting to even greater heights.”

A polite smattering of applause snapped Logan back to the present. He arranged his face into a convincing smile, but it was a mask, hiding the turmoil beneath.

Strike Force Legends.

Where had it gone wrong?

The tournament had been electric. Every fight, every moment, every controversy had set the world on fire. Happy Jack had introduced the world to his unique brand of violence. Colton Hayes and Glenn Sterling had fought their own wars, not just against their opponents but against time itself. And then there was Titan. The man everyone had bet on, the future of the sport. The face of the brand.

Until Cade Mercer made him tap.

That was supposed to be the moment. The shockwave that changed everything. The upset of the century. The kind of moment you could build a whole promotion around.

And for a while, it seemed like it had.

The numbers had been astronomical. The engagement across every platform was through the roof. Viral clips. Think pieces. The analysts calling it “the rebirth of tournament-style combat sports.”

So why the hell had it led to nothing?

Logan continued to sit at the press conference, his hands clasped in front of him as another. His mind kept jumping back in the aftermath of Strike Force Legends, scrolling through headlines and financial projections, trying to make sense of it all.

Every metric pointed to success

Every signal said it should have been the start of something bigger.

“Logan?”

His name snapped him back into the present. He turned slightly, realizing that the room had gone quiet. All eyes were on him. Someone—one of the reporters, maybe—had asked a question. He had no idea what it was.

Richard, all slick charm of a used car salesman, leaned towards the microphone. "I think what Logan would say," he schmoozed, teeth gleaming under the lights, "is that his passion for this industry is what makes this partnership so exciting."

"'Logan, is there any possibility that Titan, or Cade Mercer will follow you to Jolt Fighting?” The reporter steamrolled ahead with their own agenda, indifferent to the conversation that had just taken place.

Logan leaned in to answer but was abruptly cut off by Richard, answering for him as if Logan was a liability and would commit to a check the ownership group could not cash, literally.

“We are still reviewing applications and interest from wrestlers and fighters, not only in the US, but from all around the world.”

The urge to scoff nearly choked Logan. Interest. All around the world. The truth was, Jolt was probably dead upon arrival, but Logan knew he could not let that be known if he wanted this project to have any kind of shot of sustainability.

Logan’s fingers twitched, aching for a pen to scrawl out the visions that still burned in his mind. The roar of the crowd as Cade Mercer, face screamed glory, lifting the trophy high. The ripple of shock and awe that had reverberated through not only the MMA world, but the wrestling world as well with each bout, each upset, each story written in fists and hearts. 

That had been real. Raw. Alive in a way that this hollow charade could never hope to touch.

Logan straightened his shoulders, meeting Richard's practiced gaze with a cool stare of his own. Let them preen and posture for the cameras. Let them spin their pretty illusions of the future.

“He’s been in the trenches, he’s seen what it takes to put on something truly special. And with Jolt Fighting, he’s got the perfect platform to take that vision even further.”

More applause. More nodding. Logan swallowed the bitterness creeping up his throat and forced another smile.

Richard was good. He was polished. He knew how to play the game. Victor knew how to play too and had the check book to back it up.

Strike Force Legends wasn’t a failure.

It couldn’t have been.

So why did it feel like one?

Why was he sitting at this table, at someone else’s press conference, pretending like this was the next step? Why did it feel like he’d lost something—and didn’t even know what it was? As another question was tossed across the table, questions and spun visions of Jolt's gritty underdog potential, Logan's mind churned with darker thoughts. Strike Force Legends had been lightning in a bottle, a supernova that should have redefined the sport. Its abrupt implosion had left a void in him bigger than any half-empty conference room.

Logan adjusted his microphone and sat up straighter. He could fake this. He had to.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

Strike Force Legends was unfinished business, maybe not as Strike Force Legends, but it’s identity, its core passion. And whether Jolt Fighting knew it or not—sooner or later, he was going to find out why.

And who made sure it stayed dead