SFL: Exposed

The office space inside Logan Drake's hotel room barely deserved the name—a small desk cluttered with notes, a half-empty cup of day-old coffee, and his laptop screen casting a cold glow onto his tired face. He scrolled through the latest edition of Tapout, each paragraph deepening the lines around his eyes, jaw muscles working beneath his stubbled skin.

"Sources close to Peak Media Group have revealed that Victor Blackwell himself confirmed during an investor call that Summit Fighting League is, in fact, scripted—pre-determined outcomes and all. This revelation comes just weeks after SFL tried to position itself as the most legitimate combat sports promotion in the world. So, which is it? Are we watching the next evolution of fighting, or is it just pro wrestling with a fresh coat of paint?"

Rico Vega's name sat beneath the headline like a signature on an execution order. Logan exhaled sharply, the sound filling the silent room as he reached for his phone with robotic precision. His thumb jabbed at the screen, scrolling through the endless contacts list until he reached the “V"‘s”.

The call connected—one ring, two rings, then—

"Ah, Logan," Victor Blackwell responded, his voice dripping with a silken composure that set Logan's nerves on edge, making his teeth grind in frustration. "How gracious of you to call. Have you found a solution yet for MSG?"

Logan bit back the urge to lash out, determined not to let Victor's provocation throw him off course. His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning a ghostly white as he fought to maintain control.

"Why the hell would you claim it was scripted, Victor?" he demanded, his voice slicing through the air with an intensity he had never dared use against his employer before. "This changes everything. It undermines the very foundation of what we're building—"

A deliberate pause filled the line. Just long enough to let Logan feel the weight of Victor's indifference, to remind him which of them held true power.

"I did what I had to," Victor finally replied, his voice carrying the unhurried confidence of a man who never needed to explain himself, "to save your little precious promotion."

Logan felt his stomach twist as Victor continued, each word carrying the smug superiority that made Logan want to hurl the phone across the room.

"The state commission was coming after me for not having the proper licenses for Strike Force," Victor explained, drawing out the name like it was some quaint hobby rather than Logan's life's work. "Something I thought you had under control but, surprise surprise, you didn't. If anyone should be doing the shouting, Logan, it should be—"

"Don't you dare—"

"Always. Me."

Logan's pulse pounded in his ears, blood rushing with such force he could almost taste it. His free hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side.

"What the hell are you talking about, Victor?" Logan snapped, confusion momentarily overpowering his anger. "I never once said I had the state athletic commission handled. You were the one who said everything was being taken care of by the PMG machine." He mimicked Victor's distinctive cadence with venomous precision.

A soft chuckle filtered through the phone, the sound of genuine amusement at his expense. "Oh, that's adorable, Logan. Mocking me. That'll certainly fix your little predicament."

"Predicament? You just tanked the credibility of my promotion!" Logan surged to his feet, unable to remain still as the full implications crashed over him. "And for what? To dodge a licensing fee fine?"

Victor exhaled slowly, the sound carrying layers of condescension. "Logan, we need to be talking about the bigger issue here."

Logan's fingers tightened around the phone with such force that the case creaked in protest.

"Bigger issue?! What could be bigger than this?"

"Two point five."

Logan blinked, momentarily derailed. "What?"

"The rating."

The absurdity of Victor's concern in the face of existential crisis left Logan momentarily speechless. He stared at the hotel ceiling, counting to five before trusting himself to speak.

"You care about the rating Rico Vega gave?" Disbelief colored every syllable. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're unbelievable."

Victor's tone shifted instantly, false warmth replaced by the real icy precision of a man accustomed to absolute control. His words came in measured bursts, each one finding its target with surgical precision.

"No, Logan, I care about the fact that we only sold $15,000 in merchandise. That we barely managed to scrape together 1,300 ticket sales. That we pulled a TV rating of 0.18—which, in case you don't understand, is what companies care about before they even think about buying ad space on your shitty show. That we made a grand total of $52,000 in ticket sales. That doesn't even begin to cover expenses for this traveling circus of yours."

Each number hit Logan like a physical blow, his anger gradually transforming into something heavier, something dangerously close to despair. The cold reality of the numbers provided no room for argument—SFL was hemorrhaging money at a rate that no investor would tolerate indefinitely.

But this new narrative—this poisonous claim that everything they'd built was predetermined theater rather than legitimate competition? That would transform a difficult situation into an impossible one. Fighters would walk. Sponsors would flee. The athletic commissions that had been cautiously embracing them would shut their doors.

Logan sank back into his chair, the weight of understanding settling across his shoulders like a physical burden.

Everything was about to get so much worse.