Damon walked the line, his steps steady, his mind locked in.
Fans reached out, hands stretching past the barricades, desperate to touch him, to be part of the moment. Officials moved swiftly, keeping the crowd at bay, ensuring the walkout stayed smooth.
As Damon reached the checkpoint, an official gestured toward his shirt. Without hesitation, he grabbed the hem, pulled it over his head, and tossed it into the sea of screaming fans.
The crowd erupted. A new wave of cheers, deafening in its intensity.
The official wasted no time. He ran his hands down Damon's shoulders, across his chest, checking for anything out of regulation.
He checked Damon's mouthpiece, nodded in approval, then checked his cup by making Damon pat it.
Finally, the Vaseline. A thick layer smeared across his cheekbones, his brow, ensuring his skin would be slick, minimizing cuts.
Damon stood still, letting it happen, his expression unreadable.
The lights. The noise. The stakes.
All that was left was the fight.
Damon looked at Victor, and nodded as they got into a quick hug.
Damon joked, saying " quick death of slow death"
Victor chuckled " quick would be better, "
Damon made his way to the cage. When he got to the stair.
Just like always, he crawled there.
When he got in and stood up.
The music hit, and the crowd erupted once again. This time, it was for the United States.
Unlike Ireland and many more, the U.S. team didn't go with their national anthem. Instead, Shane Brickland had picked his own walkout song, a heavy, adrenaline-pumping track that suited his brash, no-nonsense personality.
Damon actually agreed with the choice. National anthems were fine, sure, they raised enthusiasm, gave a sense of pride, but they didn't get you hyped the way a proper walkout song did.
A good entrance needed energy, a vibe, something that made both the fighter and the crowd feel alive.
But that wasn't his concern right now.
Shane Brickland had arrived.
Damon cleared his mind as the UFA Middleweight Champion made his way down the tunnel.
Shane walked with an undeniable swagger, jaw clenched, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as he muttered to his team while pacing forward.
He was the type of guy who thrived off the chaos of a crowd, feeding off their energy whether they loved him or hated him.
As he got closer to the cage, Shane pounded his chest, looking around at the roaring fans, pointing at a few before talking more shit, probably about Damon, maybe just in general.
The cameras caught every second of it, adding to the spectacle.
He reached the steps and stomped his foot against the first one before jogging up, stopping only to give one last smirk to the crowd.
Then he stepped inside the cage.
And just like that, the air changed.
The crowd buzzed with anticipation. Two of the best middleweights in the world were now locked inside the same cage.
Damon took one last deep breath, rolling his shoulders.
The commentators' excitement was evident as Shane Brickland made his way to the cage.
"This is it! The fight everyone's been waiting for!" one of them exclaimed. "Damon Cross, Ireland's biggest rising star, against Shane Brickland, the UFA middleweight champion! This is a high-stakes fight with massive implications."
"Absolutely," the other commentator chimed in. "And let's be real here, this isn't just any fight. This is a champion stepping into the tournament, and Damon Cross, one of the most hyped prospects in the world, is facing him right off the bat. If Damon wins, people are going to start saying he's the real uncrowned champ."
As Shane walked through the tunnel, the American fans erupted in cheers, while Irish supporters countered with their own chants. The energy in the arena was electric, the crowd fully invested in the spectacle.
"Listen to this place! The atmosphere is insane," the commentator continued. "We've got U.S. fans, Irish fans, and MMA fans in general who just want to see these two throw down."
"Both these guys are killers," the other added. "Damon's striking, grappling, and fight IQ have been on full display in his career."
Deuce Baffer stepped forward, the spotlight hitting him like a celestial force, the gleam of the pristine canvas reflecting in his signature suit.
The crowd, already electric, fell into a tense silence, anticipation swelling with every second.
Microphone in hand, he took a deep breath before unleashing a voice that could shake the foundation of the sport itself.
"LAAAAAADIIIIEEES AND GENTLEEEEMEEENNN!… MMA FANS AROUND THE WOOORLD… AND THE WARRIORS IN ATTENDANCE HERE TONIGHT…"
He let the energy simmer, the crowd hanging onto his every word.
"IIIIIIIIT'S TIIIIIIIIIIME!"
The arena exploded, the sound ricocheting through the rafters, a symphony of roars and chants echoing in every direction.
"LIVE FROM THE SOLD-OUT GLOBAL COMBAT ARENA, BROUGHT TO YOU BY CHARGER ENERGY, THE ONLY DRINK THAT HITS HARDER THAN A HEAVYWEIGHT, AND BY IRON GRIP TAPE, THE STRONGEST WRAP IN THE GAME... THIS... IS YOUR MAAAAAAAIN EVENT OF THE EEEEVENIIIING!"
He stretched the words, his cadence masterful, letting the excitement build until the very walls of the arena seemed to pulse with energy.
"SANCTIONED BY THE WORLD MMA TOURNAMENT COMMISSION AND SUPPORTED BY FIGHT PROTECTION GEAR, WHERE SAFETY MEETS VIOLENCE, THIS BOUT IS SCHEDULED FOR THREE ROUNDS IN THE MIDDLEWEIGHT DIVISION!"
The intensity in his voice grew, his delivery sharper than ever.
"INTRODUCING FIRST… FIGHTING OUT OF THE RED CORNER! REPRESENTING IRELAND… THIS MAN IS A STRIKING SAVANT, A SUBMISSION ARTIST, HE STANDS SIX FEET TWO INCHES TALL, WEIGHING IN AT 185 POUNDS, BOASTING AN UNDEFEATED RECORD OF 16 WINS, NO LOSSES!
DAAAAAMON CROOOOOOOSS!"
The Irish fans erupted, their chants thunderous, a sea of green, white, and orange washing over the arena.
Deuce let the cheers breathe before turning toward the other side.
"AND NOW… HIS OPPONENT! FIGHTING OUT OF THE BLUE CORNER… REPRESENTING THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAAA! THIS MAN IS A UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT DIVISION CHAMPION, HE STANDS SIX FEET ONE INCH TALL, WEIGHING IN AT 185 POUNDS, HOLDING A PROFESSIONAL RECORD OF 29 WINS, 7 LOSSES!
SHAAAAAANE BRIIIIICKLAAAAAND!"
The American crowd roared back, their voices colliding with the Irish chants, a true battle of nations happening in real-time.
Deuce, his voice unwavering, stepped back to the center.
"YOUR REFEREE IN CHARGE… MARC TALLMAN! AND WITH THAT SAID… LLLLLET'S GEEEET REEEEADY TO GO TO WAAAAAAAAAAR!"
The moment was sealed.
Damon and Shane locked eyes.
The cage door slammed shut.
The fight was about to begin.