The Temptation of the Unknown

The late afternoon sun hung low over the Florida coast, its golden glow spilling across the ocean and into the windows of a high-end beachfront restaurant. Inside, the lively chatter of conversation mixed with the clinking of silverware and the occasional burst of laughter. The place was packed—locals, tourists, businessmen—but one table, cordoned off by a velvet rope, was noticeably isolated from the rest.

At the center of it sat Titan.

He was leaned back in his chair, his massive frame relaxed but unmistakably imposing. A half-eaten steak sat in front of him, alongside a towering stack of empty plates, the remnants of a man who indulged in everything to excess. A tumbler of bourbon rested in his hand, ice clinking softly as he swirled the amber liquid. The World Heavyweight Championship sat on the table next to him—not around his waist, not draped over his shoulder, just sitting there like a trophy on display. A symbol of status.

Waitstaff hovered nearby, throwing nervous glances his way but never approaching unless summoned. Even in a room full of people, Titan was an island.

The front doors swung open, and Logan Drake stepped inside. He was all business—trademark wrinkled suit, loose tie, the look of a man who operated in gray areas. His sharp eyes scanned the restaurant quickly, locking onto Titan. With the confidence of someone who belonged anywhere, Logan brushed past the velvet rope, ignoring the watchful gaze of a nearby waiter.

Titan didn’t look up as Logan approached. Instead, he took a slow sip of bourbon, savoring it. “You’re not a waiter,” he muttered, setting the glass down. “So, either you’ve got my next drink, or you’ve got something worth my time.”

Logan pulled out a chair and sat down, unfazed by Titan’s theatrics. “Elias Rhodes.” He extended a hand. “Logan Drake.”

Titan glanced at the outstretched hand but didn’t take it. Instead, he smirked, lifting his glass again. “So, you know my name. That’s a good start. What do you want?”

Logan dropped his hand, unfazed. “I’m putting together a one-night tournament. Wrestlers versus fighters. No weight classes, no scripts. Just pure competition. The only way to win? Pinfall, knockout or submission.”

Titan exhaled a quiet laugh, finally looking at him. “No scripts?” he repeated, amused.

“You’re taking all the fun out of it, Logan.”

“Maybe.” Logan leaned forward slightly, voice steady. “But it also means no one can say your title was handed to you. No one can say you didn’t earn it.”

Titan’s smirk faltered—just for a fraction of a second, but Logan saw it.

He pressed forward.

“You’re the World Heavyweight Champion, right?” Logan’s tone was even, deliberate. “But you and I both know that title doesn’t mean what it used to. It’s not about who’s the best anymore—it’s about who sells the most tickets. Aren’t you tired of being ‘scripted’ as a champion? What if you could prove to the world, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you really are the best?”

The restaurant seemed to quiet around them.

Titan studied him.

The charm, the bravado—it didn’t disappear, but something colder settled beneath it. Logan had touched something real.

Titan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying this is your shot to shut everyone up. The critics. The wrestlers in the back. The fans who think you can’t do it for real. This is your chance to stand in a ring with fighters, not entertainers, and make them all regret doubting you.”

An uneasy hush filled the room, the offer looming between them like an unmovable force.

Titan exhaled through his nose, reaching for his glass. He took a slow sip, letting Logan wait. Finally, he set the tumbler down and smirked.

“Alright.”

Logan blinked, momentarily surprised by how quickly Titan had agreed. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Titan’s smirk widened. “Hell, I might even let some of your ‘real fighters’ make it to the finals—give the fans a little show before I put ‘em down.”

Logan straightened, adjusting his tie. “Good. Then let’s talk competitors.”

Titan gestured lazily. “Who else have you got?”

Logan leaned forward. “Glenn Sterling. Colton Hayes. And—”

Titan laughed. Loudly. The kind of laugh that turned heads.

“Glenn Sterling and Colton Hayes?” he repeated, shaking his head. “The Golden Boy and Mr. MMA? You’ve got a washed-up prima donna and a meathead who thinks he’s a real fighter.” He tilted his head, grinning. “Is this supposed to impress me?”

Logan didn’t react. He just watched, waiting.

Titan rubbed his chin, still smirking. “You know what? Fine. Sign me up.” He leaned back in his chair, lifting his glass once more. “This is going to be a cakewalk.”

Logan extended his hand again.

This time, Titan took it. His grip was firm, confident.

“Welcome aboard,” Logan said.

Titan’s smirk widened. “Don’t thank me yet.” He took another sip of bourbon. “Just make sure there’s a trophy. I like trophies.”

Logan gave a short nod before standing. He had what he came for. But as he turned to leave, something about the way Titan spoke, the way he had dismissed the competition so easily, left a nagging thought in Logan’s mind.

Titan had agreed quickly.

Too quickly.

As Logan made his way out of the restaurant, he couldn’t help but feel both relieved and uneasy.

Titan was in.

But whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.