Kingdom Crumbling

The plane touched down with a jarring thud that snapped Logan Drake from his fitful sleep. He blinked away the disorientation, momentarily struggling to remember which city they were landing in—a worrying sign of how much his life had become an endless blur of emails, and phone calls.

MSG, he reminded himself as the aircraft taxied toward the terminal. Kingdom Come. The show that's supposed to blow everything out of the water. Kingdom Come had taken over Logan’s thoughts. First thought in the morning, last thought in the evening.

Around him, passengers began the familiar ritual of post-landing impatience—unbuckling seatbelts too early, standing despite the illuminated sign, retrieving bags from overhead compartments with awkward urgency. Logan remained seated, allowing himself one final moment of relative peace before rejoining the perpetual crisis management that defined his existence.

When the chime finally signaled their arrival at the gate, he reached for his phone with practiced reluctance. The device powered on, its blank screen offering a final reprieve before reconnecting to the world.

Just breathe, he thought, a mantra that had sustained him through countless life storms. Whatever it is, you've handled worse.

The screen illuminated, then immediately erupted with notifications—a digital avalanche of demands, questions, and problems that had accumulated during the three-hour communication blackout. His stomach tightened as Victor Blackwell's name dominated the list, each email timestamp separated by mere minutes, suggesting a mounting fury with each unanswered message.

"Jesus Christ," Logan muttered, scrolling through the barrage with growing dread. "Can't even go one flight without the world burning down."

His thumb hesitated over the first email, then tapped it with the resignation of a man uncovering the extent of flood damage to his home. The subject lines paraded past as he worked through them methodically: RATINGS REPORT. PROJECTIONS. TALENT PAYOUTS. Each message carried Victor's distinctive tone—terse, demanding, condescending—as if Logan were a particularly disappointing subordinate rather than the architect of the entire Summit Fighting League.

Then, a subject line that made his heart sink: MSG CANCELLED. Logan tapped it open, a cold weight settling in his chest as he read the message:

"Logan, MSG pulled the plug. You need to find a new venue for your little pay-per-view."

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as the words registered—not just the information itself, but the staggering arrogance behind it. For weeks, Victor had dominated board meetings with his trademark swagger, forcing Logan to endure endless monologues on mute while the CEO waxed poetic about his supposed influence. "Oh, don't worry, Logan. MSG needs us. MSG needs this event." The refrain had become so familiar that Logan could recite it verbatim, complete with Victor's self-satisfied pauses for effect.

The possibility of needing a contingency plan had never seriously crossed Logan's mind—Victor's confidence had been absolute, unwavering, infectious despite Logan's natural skepticism. And now, with the event barely two weeks away, Victor casually tossed this catastrophe into Logan's lap as if it were a minor inconvenience rather than a potential company-killer.

Find a backup? The thought almost triggered hysterical laughter. Sure—he'd just consult his secret list of internationally renowned arenas desperate to host a controversial combat sports event with virtually no notice, complete setup crews, and media infrastructure already miraculously in place. As if this monumental failure of Victor's much-vaunted connections was somehow Logan's responsibility to salvage.

"You coming, Logan?"

The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, pulling him back to the physical world. Logan looked up to find Colton Hayes standing in the aisle, gym bag slung over his shoulder, expression carrying the patient understanding of a man who recognized someone drowning in professional troubles.

"Oh yeah, of course," Logan mumbled, hastily shoving his phone into his pocket as he gathered his belongings. He rose from his seat, suddenly aware that they were the last passengers remaining, flight attendants hovering nearby with the forced smiles of people ready to end their workday.

Logan followed Colton off the plane, his mind still processing the email bombardment even as they navigated the crowded terminal. Once clear of the immediate crush, he pulled his phone out again, compulsively returning to the digital disaster zone. Another email caught his eye, buried between Victor's demands and criticisms: "Victor Blackwell & PMG buy out Tapout for undisclosed amount."

And now, somehow, this glorified gossip factory had become another jewel in Victor Blackwell's crown—another acquisition, another chess piece moved across the board in some grand strategy that only Victor fully understood. Summit Fighting League—supposedly the flagship of Peak Media's combat sports division, the project Victor had personally championed in boardrooms—was apparently less worthy of Victor's attention than a website specializing in clickbait headlines and paparazzi photos of fighters and wrestlers leaving nightclubs. The promotion Logan had poured years of his life into building had been reduced to "your little pay-per-view" in Victor's emails, while a digital rumor mill warranted personal oversight from the CEO himself.

Enough, Logan decided, a sudden surge of frustration propelling his fingers across the screen. He began deleting emails with reckless abandon, each swipe carrying a small, futile rebellion against Victor's constant barrage. For once, the problems could wait. For once, he wouldn't immediately jump to solve every crisis Victor deemed worthy of dumping in his lap.

His finger hesitated over one final message—a forwarded review from Victor written by Rico Vega, the self-important voice behind Tapout. Despite his better judgment, Logan opened it, eyes quickly scanning the contents:

"Contenders 2 was a step up from the disaster that was Contenders 1, but let’s be real—beating that train wreck isn’t exactly an achievement. Less corporate drivel, more actual fights, so hey, progress. That said, I still don’t get why two dinosaurs like Glenn Sterling and Colton Hayes were in the main event. This is supposed to be the future of combat sports, right? Not a retirement home throwdown. Now, credit where it’s due—Matthew vs. Happy Jack? Insanity. Straight-up chaos in the best (and bloodiest) way possible. We’re only in March, but that might already be a top contender for Match of the Year. Final verdict? 3.5 stars. Not great, not terrible. Let’s see if they can actually build on this or if we’re back to the boardroom nonsense next week."

Logan glanced up at Colton walking several paces ahead—one of those "old timers" Vega had dismissed so casually, a veteran who had given his body to this business for two decades and still delivered quality performances night after night. The disrespect stung on Colton's behalf, even as a part of Logan acknowledged the brutal honesty of the assessment.

Three and half stars, he reflected, pocketing the phone as he quickened his pace to catch up with Colton. Not great, not terrible. Story of my professional life lately.

"Everything alright?" Colton asked as Logan fell into step beside him, the veteran fighter's perceptive gaze suggesting he'd noticed more than Logan would prefer.

"Yeah," Logan lied, forcing a confidence into his voice that he didn't feel. "Just the usual corporate bullshit. Nothing I can't handle."

Colton nodded, clearly unconvinced but respectful enough not to press further. "If you say so, boss."

They continued through the terminal in companionable silence, Logan's mind already racing ahead to the impossible task that awaited him: finding a new venue for Kingdom Come with almost no notice, placating talent who expected Madison Square Garden prestige, and somehow convincing Victor that Summit Fighting League deserved to be more than just Logan's "little pay-per-view."

One crisis at a time, he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders as they approached the exit where Nevada sunshine waited to greet them. That's how we've always done it. That's how we'll keep doing it.

But even as he thought it, Logan couldn't shake the growing suspicion that Victor Blackwell's games were only just beginning—and that Summit Fighting League was merely a pawn on a much larger board.