The Champion’s Burden

The suite was flawless. Immaculate white walls, plush leather furnishings, and a minibar stocked with expensive liquor Cade wouldn’t touch—not tonight. Windows offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline, its lights glittering like diamonds scattered across the night. It was everything success was supposed to look like.

And yet...

Cade Mercer stood in front of the mirror, still wearing his tailored suit from the last media stop. The fabric felt stiff against his skin, like a costume he hadn’t quite broken in. His tie was loose, hanging undone around his neck, and his Strike Force Legends trophy sat untouched on the glass table behind him. He should have been celebrating. Instead, he felt only the relentless pressure.

His phone vibrated against the bright marble countertop. Again. Cade didn’t move, just watched his reflection in the mirror, his reflection staring back like a stranger. The phone buzzed a second time. A third. The screen flashed:  

Clayton Reed.

Cade exhaled slowly, tension tightening in his chest. Finally, he answered, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Cade, listen up," Clayton’s voice was sharp, efficient, brimming with urgency. "We've got big things coming. Sponsors loved that last interview—serious money deals are lining up. You’re landing the cover of Elite Combat Weekly next month, and we just booked a meet-and-greet at Luminary Productions. A-list crowd. This is huge."

Clayton’s tone was relentless, the practiced voice of a man who saw beyond the fight game—straight into the business. Cade had grown familiar with it, yet tonight it grated differently.

"I know you’re thinking you need more gym time," Clayton continued, cutting off any possible protest. "But trust me, this is what defines legends. Fighters come and go. Champions last. We’re not building a name—we’re building an empire."

Cade pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. His head carried the damage of a headache from his last round of media appearances—but no one seemed to care about that.

"Cade? You there?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned, letting his gaze drift toward the trophy on the table. The reflection of city lights flickered against its polished surface blurring the lines of his own accomplishment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. "Yeah."

"Good. You’re a professional. So we keep moving, we keep winning, we keep getting paid. That’s what it’s all about."

Cade’s jaw tightened.

Was it?

The hunger to fight—that was real. That was still there, still burning inside him. But everything outside the cage? It wasn’t like Clayton sold him a different vision. He told him from the beginning that he was there to make money, lots of money. Clayton was keeping up his end of the contract, now it was up to Cade to keep the momentum going.

But it was starting to feel like a trap. He wanted to be back on the mat, feeling the weight of another fighter pressing against him, feeling the sting of impact, feeling something real.

"Clayton," Cade interrupted flatly, "I’ll call you later."

"Yeah, yeah. I’ll have my assistant send you the schedule. Just be ready for next week. Big moves ahead."

Cade ended the call before Clayton could say anything else. He placed the phone face-down, silencing the noise, the endless demands, the unrelenting expectations. For a single moment, the room was quiet again, and he allowed himself to breathe.

He reached out, fingers brushing against the trophy, tracing the engraving of his name. It was his accomplishment. His legacy. But why did it suddenly feel like it belonged to everyone but him? His grip tightened on the trophy’s edge, knuckles whitening, pressing painfully into the metal. Maybe this was only the start. Or maybe—this was the moment Cade Mercer began to lose himself.