The rest of the day went smoothly. The group breathed a sigh of relief when the drama was over, at least for now.
They chose to keep things easy, so they ordered pizza and sat around the living room laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened.
It was nice to have a day off and hang out with friends. The stress from the morning slowly went away with each slice.
The house was quiet and peaceful as night fell. After taking a shower, Damon felt refreshed as he finished his routine and said good night to everyone.
He had a small smile on his face as he shut the door to his bedroom. "Time to enter the Simulation," he said to himself in a low voice, his heart pounding with excitement.
He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and summoned the familiar panel in his mind.
The screen showed up and asked for the usual confirmation.
[Are you sure you want to enter the Simulation?]
Taking a deep breath, Damon chose "Y" and let himself fall into the unknown.
The white void around him quickly changed into a place he was familiar with: an MMA gym with a big mat spread out in the middle and bright lights shining on it.
Damon took a deep breath, feeling the simulated air fill his lungs.
He focused, and the figure of Chemasov materialized across the mat, towering and imposing.
Damon wanted to work on his groundwork, and there was no better sparring partner, even simulated, than Chemasov.
The man was a master of pressure and control, an absolute force on the ground.
He knew it wouldn't be easy, but if he could hold his own here, he'd get one step closer to getting better on the ground in real life.
As Damon concentrated, his clothes changed into a comfortable workout outfit with breathable shorts, a tight-fitting compression shirt, and strong hand wraps.
He looked down, changed his stance, and felt how comfortable it was to move in his workout clothes.
Across the mat, Chemasov's figure stood motionless, waiting for Damon to initiate the spar.
Damon took a deep breath, clenching his fists as he prepared himself.
"Fight," Damon commanded, and the simulation obeyed.
Chemasov's figure came to life and moved forward with such determination that it sent a chill down Damon's spine.
Damon took a cautious step back, assessing Chemasov's stance and his movements.
He waited for the right moment, then launched forward with a swift jab aimed at creating some distance.
Chemasov deflected it with ease, barely flinching as he stepped in closer, crowding Damon's space.
Seeing no other option, Damon quickly switched to a low kick, aiming for Chemasov's lead leg.
It landed solidly, and for a brief second, Damon felt a rush of satisfaction.
But Chemasov barely registered the impact, closing in even more.
In a split-second move, Chemasov reached out, clasping Damon's shoulder with one powerful hand and sweeping his legs with the other.
Before he could react, Damon was flat on his back, the mat's impact echoing through the room.
Damon gritted his teeth, frustration mixing with determination as he tried to wriggle free.
He rolled to the side, attempting to slip out from under Chemasov's weight, but the simulated fighter's control was ironclad.
Chemasov smoothly transitioned, pressing his forearm against Damon's throat in a move that limited Damon's breathing just enough to keep him uncomfortable.
With a sudden effort, Damon arched his hips, making just enough room for him to pull his head free.
He scrambled to his knees, trying to regain control, but Chemasov was already moving, locking one of Damon's arms and transitioning seamlessly to a back mount.
Damon grabbed Chemasov's arms and pushed his elbows down to make it harder for him to hold on.
He managed to slip out momentarily, turning his body around to face Chemasov again.
This time, Damon shot forward with a low tackle, hoping to reverse the roles and gain control from the ground.
His arms locked around Chemasov's waist, and he pushed with everything he had.
For a split second, it seemed to work. Chemasov staggered back, and Damon surged forward, pressing his advantage.
But in an instant, Chemasov planted his feet and shifted his weight, effectively anchoring himself to the mat.
Using Damon's own momentum against him, he pivoted and brought Damon crashing to the ground once again.
This time, Chemasov didn't waste a second. He was on top of Damon, controlling his posture with a vise-like grip around his shoulders.
Damon tried to twist, to free his arms, to find any angle that would allow him leverage.
He was able to lift one leg and use it to try to push Chemasov back with his knee, but Chemasov successfully pinned it down, taking away Damon's defense.
Damon's training kicked in, his mind racing through techniques.
He twisted his hips, shifting his weight to unbalance Chemasov, while using his arms to create a frame against Chemasov's chest.
For a moment, he managed to gain an inch of space.
He quickly turned his hips around, which caused him to partly slip out from under Chemasov's mount.
But before he could capitalize on it, Chemasov adjusted, slipping back into position as if he'd anticipated Damon's every move.
The sequence repeated itself over and over.
Each time Damon managed to free himself or create space, Chemasov countered with swift, practiced moves that left Damon back at square one.
Chemasov's grappling skills were beyond formidable; they were ruthless, methodical, stripping away Damon's defenses as if he were peeling an onion, layer by layer.
Determined not to be defeated, Damon finally tried an unconventional approach.
He threw his legs up, attempting to trap Chemasov in a triangle choke, hoping his flexibility would give him an edge.
But Chemasov saw it coming, his arm slipping out just in time to avoid the choke.
With a swift, punishing movement, he flattened Damon's legs back down, his own weight sinking onto Damon's chest in a pin that felt as unbreakable as stone.
pinned and gasping for air, Damon struggled to catch his breath, his chest heaving.
He had tried to use every skill and plan he had learned, but they all ran into a wall that they couldn't move.
As the session went on, Chemasov kept up his constant pressure, taking advantage of every small weakness in Damon's defense and every mistimed breath.
Damon had rarely felt this overpowered, even in his real fights.
But as draining as it was, he could feel himself learning with every maneuver, his instincts sharpening, his body adapting.