Logan Drake

The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome of failure, each second punctuating Logan Drake’s growing frustration. His office—if the cramped, overstuffed space deserved the title—was a monument to chaos. Stacks of papers teetered precariously on every surface, coffee cups sat abandoned in various stages of decay, and a battered whiteboard loomed in the corner, covered in a maze of names, arrows, and question marks.  

Logan hunched over his desk, his tie draped loosely like a battle flag of exhaustion. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms marked by the kind of fatigue that went bone-deep. The desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes.  

“Venue? Booked,” Logan muttered, flipping through his checklist. “Sponsors? Barely locked in.” He tapped the pen against the page, his jaw tightening. “Promotions? Not a complete disaster—yet.”  

His gaze locked on the whiteboard, where FIGHTERS was circled so hard the ink bled through. Beneath it, a list of names had been mercilessly crossed out, leaving only a few lonely candidates—none of them guaranteed.  

“Fighters,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. The word tasted bitter in his mouth, like a dare he wasn’t sure he could answer.  

He picked up the glossy promotional poster from his desk, holding it at arm’s length. The title blazed across the top in bold, gold letters: Strike Force Legends. Below it, a dramatic rendering of an MMA fighter squaring off against a pro wrestler inside a steel cage dominated the frame. The tagline at the bottom read: Where Legacies Collide.  

Logan stared at the poster, the weight of his ambition pressing on him like a physical force. This wasn’t just about creating a spectacle—it was about proving himself. He needed this event to succeed, not just for the fans or the fighters, but for himself.  

His eyes drifted to the shelf behind his desk. A framed flyer from his failed tech startup, a faded program from a regional wrestling show that barely lasted two years, and a crumpled newspaper clipping about an amateur MMA league he’d once revived—all trophies of battles fought and lost.  

“Moderate success,” Logan muttered with a bitter laugh. “Story of my life.”  

The silence in the room was broken only by the faint hum of the desk lamp. The phone on his desk loomed like a challenge, daring him to make the next move. Taking a deep breath, he dialed a number, the tone of the ringing echoing in his ears.  

Ring

Ring

Ring

“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered after the third ring.  

“It’s Logan Drake,” he said, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel. “We need to talk.”  

A sigh crackled through the receiver. “Middle of the night, Logan. This better be good.”  

“It is,” Logan said, gripping the phone tighter. “Trust me.”  

Outside the window, the city lights stretched endlessly into the night, a silent reminder of the stakes. Logan exhaled slowly, steeling himself. The point of no return was behind him. Now, all that mattered was moving forward.