Built in Eight Hours or Lost Forever

Logan Drake sat on the edge of his hotel bed, hunched forward with elbows digging into his thighs, hands dangling uselessly between his knees. The ache that radiated through his body had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the invisible burden pressing down on his shoulders. Each vertebra felt compressed under the weight of responsibility—the knowledge that his decisions in the next forty-eight hours would determine whether Summit Fighting League survived or imploded in spectacular fashion.

Through the paper-thin walls, he could hear the muffled symphony of celebration from the hotel lobby below—raucous laughter punctuated by the metallic crack of beer cans opening, the occasional roar of collective approval when someone did something worthy of drunken admiration.

The sounds were achingly familiar, a ritual as old as combat sports itself. Warriors celebrating survival, drowning the pain of battle in cheap alcohol and camaraderie. Part of him longed to join them—to shed the mantle of leadership for a few precious hours and simply be one of the boys. To laugh without calculation, to drink without concern for tomorrow's consequences, to exist without the constant vigilance that had become his permanent state of being.

Logan moved to the door, which had been left slightly ajar earlier, and pulled it firmly shut. As the latch clicked into place, movement across the hallway caught his attention. Jax Braddock was emerging from his room, expression carrying the weary satisfaction of a man who had given his body to violence and survived to tell the tale.

Their eyes met in one of those fleeting moments of unspoken understanding that only exists between those who have walked similar paths. Neither man spoke nor even nodded—just a brief connection acknowledging their shared choice to forego the festivities below.

He collapsed back onto the bed, the mattress sighing beneath his weight as he reached for his laptop. The screen illuminated his exhausted eyes with its harsh blue glow as he navigated to his email client, mentally preparing for the barrage of rejection about to unfold.

Logan's fingers moved across the keyboard with structural efficiency, composing essentially the same desperate plea to every venue in the Northeast with enough capacity and credibility to host their pay-per-view. Each message carried the same underlying subtext: Save us. We're drowning.

"Do you have any last-minute availability?" "Can you accommodate an event of this scale?" "We understand this is short notice, but we are willing to work with any available slot you may have."

Send. Send. Send.

The minutes stretched into an hour; each message dispatched with diminishing hope. His eyes burned from the screen's glare, brain running constant calculations of diminishing possibilities. If MSG was out and no comparable venue emerged, the financial hit would be catastrophic. Refunds, sponsor obligations—the cascade of consequences unfolded in his mind with nightmarish clarity.

Eventually, his vision blurred, text swimming before his strained eyes. The walls of the hotel room seemed to contract around him, the air growing stale and oppressive.

Need to breathe. Need space. Need to think.

Rising from the bed, Logan moved toward the door once again, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to massage away the headache building behind his eyes. Perhaps some air would clear his mind, reset his perspective, offer some solution that had eluded him thus far.

The scene in the lobby had evolved from casual gathering to full-blown celebration in the hour since Logan had last heard it. What had once been a hotel common area now resembled the aftermath of a fraternity party colliding with a sports bar—empty cans creating aluminum topography across every available surface, fighters & SFL employees in various states of inebriation sprawled across furniture never designed to support such activity.

Logan paused at the entrance, taking in the spectacle with the objective scrutiny of an anthropologist examining a foreign society. The room had unconsciously segregated itself into distinct social territories, each with its own gravitational center and unspoken rules of engagement.

At the far end, Glenn Sterling stood engaged in deep conversation with Clayton Reed, both men maintaining careful posture and measured gestures despite the disorder surrounding them. Glenn's expression carried the practiced disdain of old-school wrestling royalty, a man who lived his gimmick so completely that the lines between performance and reality had long since blurred. Even now, off-camera and ostensibly relaxed, he refused to associate with the "faces"—the good guys, the fan favorites. The traditional separation of heroes and villains remained sacred to him, even in an era where such distinctions had become quaint relics of a simpler time.

Some people need the structure, Logan observed, a flicker of respect mingling with exasperation. Need the rules to make sense of the madness.

Across the room, an entirely different energy commanded attention. Matthew, the Irish brawler who had somehow survived his war with Happy Jack, stood at the center of an enthusiastic circle. His face flushed crimson as he tipped back a shot of cheap liquor, immediately following it with a beer that he punctured and drained with practiced efficiency. The display drew appreciative roars from his audience, particularly from Colton Hayes and Dex Williams, who flanked him like proud elder statesmen inducting a promising rookie into sacred traditions.

"Another!" Colton shouted, his weathered face animated with genuine enjoyment rather than the controlled expressions he typically presented to cameras. Matthew slammed the empty can onto the counter with theatrical emphasis, raising two fingers to signal his commitment to escalation. His eyes already carried the glassy sheen of significant intoxication, but his grin remained sharp and present.

Dex laughed, a booming sound that carried even above the ambient noise, as he clapped a massive hand across Matthew's shoulders. "Jesus, kid, I knew you were Irish, but this is excessive even for you."

Matthew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture somehow highlighting the fresh stitches above his eyebrow—a souvenir from his match that would eventually fade into just another scar among many. "Ah sure, gotta take the edge off somehow, ain't I?" he shot back, his accent getting heavier with every swig.

Their laughter carried a note of understanding beneath the surface merriment—the shared recognition of physical costs and coping mechanisms that outsiders could never truly comprehend. Logan felt the pull toward them, the magnetic draw of belonging and momentary release. For a heartbeat, he considered joining them—grabbing a beer, slapping backs, losing himself in the simple pleasure of celebration. It would be easy.

But even as the thought formed, he recognized its impossibility. That wasn't his place. The luxury of escape belonged to others now—to those who could afford to face tomorrow with hangovers and blurry memories. His responsibility demanded perpetual vigilance, clarity when others had the freedom to blur their edges.

With a slight shake of his head—directed more at himself than the scene before him—Logan turned away, retracing his steps toward the solitude of his room. The laptop screen glowed with renewed purpose as he reentered his room, the notification light blinking with quiet insistence. Logan's heart performed a hopeful stutter as he registered the alert.

One new email.

He crossed the room in three quick strides, fingers navigating to his inbox with renewed energy. The sender's name appeared in bold:

Westchester County Center.

Logan opened the message, eyes scanning the text with the desperation of a drowning man spotting a distant shore:

"We have a last-minute opening. However, due to scheduling restrictions, we can only allot an eight-hour window for your event, including setup and teardown. Let us know if you're interested."

His mind immediately began calculating the implications. Eight hours for an entire pay-per-view, including setup and teardown? It was unprecedented, nearly impossible from a production standpoint. They would need to trim down the length of the show, shorten the time limit of every match, and cut any unnecessary downtime. No filler, no extended hype packages—just pure, relentless action from bell to bell. It would be a stripped-down, high-intensity event, raw and almost primal compared to their usual presentation. A fight card, not a spectacle.

Yet beneath the logistical nightmare lay something more important, possibility. A chance, however compromised, to deliver the event rather than cancel it. To preserve some measure of momentum rather than admit complete defeat.

Logan leaned back on the bed, running a hand through his hair as he considered the options laid before him. The familiar weight settled across his shoulders once more, but now it carried a different quality—the burden of choice rather than the crushing pressure of impossibility.

"It's this... or nothing," he murmured to the empty room, the words carrying the finality of decision rather than the uncertainty of deliberation.

He released a breath that seemed to have been held since Victor's dismissive email, fingers already moving to craft a response of acceptance. The venue wasn't ideal. The conditions weren't perfect. But it was something tangible, a foundation upon which to build, however hastily.

Kingdom Come had found a home—not the majestic castle they had promised, but a shelter against total collapse. And sometimes, Logan reflected as he typed his confirmation, survival itself was victory enough.