The Flood of Rebellion

The taxi's interior reeked of cheap pine air freshener battling decades of spilled coffee and cigarette smoke. Rain pattered against the windows, turning the outside world into a smeared watercolor painting of city lights and neon signs. Logan Drake barely registered any of it. His entire universe had collapsed to the five-inch screen clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

His phone buzzed again. And again. And again. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, thumb hovering over the notifications that kept stacking like dominos ready to fall. The locker room wasn't just upset—they were in full-scale insurrection.

— Titan: "You expect me to show up after that bullshit? Ain't happening."

Logan started typing a response, only to be interrupted by three more notifications in rapid succession.

— Matthew: "Not a bleedin’ chance I’m showin’ up to be made a feckin’ eejit. Not after the shite that’s been said. This whole thing’s a right balls-up, mate."

— Colton Hayes: "Look, man, you know I’ve got your back. But I’m getting questions from the boys, and I don’t know what to tell them. If SFL is fake, does that mean the other fighters fights weren’t real either? Because my ribs sure as hell say otherwise."

— Jax Braddock: "I ain't gonna be part of this circus, Logan. No Contenders for me."

"Driver, can you turn up the heat?" Logan asked, suddenly aware of the chill spreading through his body. The taxi driver grunted in acknowledgment, but Logan was already back to his phone, fingers moving frantically across the screen.

How the hell did we get here? he thought, the question burning through his mind like acid. One article. One goddamn Tapout article—and Victor Blackwell lying through his teeth to investors on a leaked call—and now everything we’ve built is crumbling.

His phone vibrated with a message that made his stomach drop.

— Glenn Sterling: "You know you can always count on me, but my payout will require a couple of additional zeros on it. That said, if the whole roster ain't working... well, I am a main event guy, and main event guys don’t work ghost towns."

"Shit," Logan hissed through clenched teeth.

His thoughts were interrupted by the one message he'd been dreading most.

— Clayton Reed: "Handle it."

Two words. Just two simple words. Sure, they didn’t come from the champion himself, but they came from his mouthpiece—so they might as well have been from Mercer directly. Logan felt the weight of them like a concrete slab on his chest. Mercer wasn't just telling him to fix the situation—he was warning him. If Logan couldn't get this under control, their relationship would be the next casualty.

The taxi swerved around a delivery truck, sending Logan sliding across the cracked leather seat. Outside, the rain intensified, sheets of water cascading down the windows, mirroring the flood of messages drowning his inbox.

Think, Drake. Think.

His fingers hovered over the screen, the words not coming. What could he possibly say to men who felt their entire professional identities had been called into question? What magic combination of words would convince them that their careers, their sacrifices, their pain meant something?

Before he could compose a thought, another message appeared—the one he'd been most dreading.

— Victor Blackwell: "I assume you're handling this. I'd hate to have to step in."

"Of course you would," Logan muttered bitterly, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel a headache building at his temples. "You set the damn house on fire and now you're threatening to call the fire department."

Victor was the reason they were in this mess. His cavalier comments about the "entertainment value" of SFL had been twisted by that Tapout writer into accusations of scripted outcomes. And now, true to form, Victor was issuing thinly veiled threats while Logan scrambled to salvage what remained.

Another buzz.

— Sebastian Greer: "Logan, you need to get a handle on this before Victor does."

The warning sent a chill down Logan's spine. Sebastian rarely reached out directly, preferring to keep his hands clean of operational mess. If he was concerned enough to message...

If I don't fix this, Victor will, Logan realized, the thought crystallizing like ice in his veins. And he won't use diplomacy or reason. He'll use fear and replacements. Careers will end. Fighters will be blackballed. And the sport we've built will never recover.

The taxi jerked to a stop at a red light, throwing Logan forward against his seatbelt. The momentary jolt snapped him out of his spiral. He took a deep breath and began typing with renewed determination.

To Matthew: "I hear you. Let's talk. No cameras. Just you and me. Give me 20 minutes."

Send.

To Colton Hayes: "Man, you know me better than that. You think I'd ever let someone like Victor control the narrative? I need you there."

His fingers were flying now, finding their rhythm. Logan had always been good in a crisis—it was why Victor had hired him in the first place. Problem-solver. Fixer. The man who could talk anyone into or out of anything.

Before he could finish his next message, the phone vibrated in his hand.

— Jax Braddock: "Tell me one good reason I should show up, Logan. Just one."

Logan's fingers froze over the keyboard. Jax wasn't like the others. He couldn't be manipulated with promises of bigger paydays or threats of career setbacks. The man had battled battles people weren’t aware of, poverty, and more personal demons than the rest of the roster combined. He needed truth.

But what truth can I offer him? Logan wondered, swallowing hard. That everything I’ve built and promoted is held together with duct tape and lies? That I'm one bad press conference away from losing control completely?

He started typing, erased it, started again. Words had always been his weapon, his shield, his salvation. But now, when he needed them most...

The screen suddenly froze, then went black before displaying the searching signal icon.

"No, no, no," Logan muttered, tapping frantically at his phone as the taxi passed under a steel bridge. The signal disappeared completely, leaving him in digital silence for the first time in hours.

Logan let his head fall back against the seat, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. His phone—his lifeline to a drowning organization—was useless. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Everything alright back there?" the driver asked, eyes meeting Logan's in the rearview mirror.

Logan stared at his black screen, seeing his own reflection staring back—tired eyes, clenched jaw, the look of a man watching everything slip through his fingers. "Yeah," he lied, slipping the useless phone into his pocket. "Everything's fine."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing away the day, just as Victor's words had washed away years of hard work and legitimacy. As the taxi emerged from under the bridge, Logan's phone remained silent. No signal. No answers. No control.