In the quiet of the backstage area, Damon finished taping his hands, his mind steady, his focus locked in. The routine was familiar by now, wraps, warm-up, deep breaths.
But what wasn't routine, what never faded, was the presence of the one person who had been by his side since the beginning.
Svetlana stood nearby, watching him with that same calm confidence she always carried. She didn't hover, didn't try to hype him up with empty words. She was just there. And that meant everything.
Damon stole a glance at her as he flexed his fingers, testing the tightness of his wraps. He didn't say anything at first, but the thought had been lingering in his mind more and more lately.
It was strange, realizing just how much she mattered to him, not just as someone who supported him, but as someone he truly couldn't picture his life without.
Damon exhaled, adjusting his wrist wraps one last time. He hoped he could give back even a fraction of what she had given him. He wanted to be the person for her that she had always been for him.
One of the corner members walked by, stopping just briefly.
"Oh, there you are," they said, barely slowing their stride. "Been lookin' for ya. It's time."
And just like that, they were gone.
Damon exhaled through his nose, standing up and shaking out his arms. The switch flipped. The thoughts, the emotions, all of it faded into the background. It was fight time.
But before he took that step toward the tunnel, he turned back.
He walked up to her, placing a hand at her waist as he leaned in, pressing a firm kiss against her lips. It wasn't rushed, wasn't just a reflex. It was a moment. A promise.
"Be right back, okay?" His voice was low, steady.
She nodded but didn't let go of his hand. Just as he turned to leave, her fingers tightened around his.
"Be careful," she said softly.
Damon smirked, giving her hand one last squeeze before finally stepping away.
He had a fight to finish.
Damon returned after a brief pause, stepping back toward Svetlana. Without a word, he took off his cap and gently placed it on her head, adjusting it slightly so it fit just right.
She blinked, looking up at him in surprise before a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
He didn't say anything else.
This time, when he turned, he walked away without stopping.
Making his way to the tunnel, he saw his team waiting for him. They stood in formation, lined up, watching him approach. Some nodded, others clapped him on the back as he stepped into place at the front.
No words were exchanged.
No need for last-minute advice.
Everyone knew why they were here.
Damon took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders.
The music was about to hit.
The moment the music hit, the team stood still for a brief second, letting the sound echo through the tunnel.
It was still the anthem.
Damon sighed. He had to talk to Victor about this later. For now, it didn't matter.
The team walked forward, their footsteps steady as they made their way through the tunnel. The closer they got to the arena, the louder the noise became. The moment they stepped out, it hit them like a wall, a wave of deafening boos.
The English crowd was relentless. They weren't just booing. They were screaming, jeering, throwing insults loud enough to be picked up on the broadcast. It was as if the entire arena had become one voice, united in their hostility.
Damon expected it. He had heard it before, in different places, under different circumstances. But tonight, it was louder. More personal.
England wanted its victory.
They wanted their fighter to crush the Irishman in their house.
But as much as they wanted that, Damon knew something even deeper, many of them feared the opposite.
His team moved behind him, their faces unreadable. The cameras zoomed in, capturing every step, every flicker of expression.
He walked slow, letting the energy soak in, letting the hostility fuel him.
The fans screamed, they chanted, they cursed his name—but he could see it in their eyes, in the faces of those closest to the barricades.
They knew what was coming.
As Damon stood still, arms outstretched, letting the official pat him down for checks, the tension beyond the cage was just as thick. The organizers sat in the back, eyes locked on the monitors, listening to the crowd's fever-pitched energy.
This wasn't just another quarterfinal fight.
It was Ireland vs. England.
A rivalry far bigger than MMA, woven deep into history. And tonight, it was being fought on this stage, under these lights.
Both crowds were passionate. Too passionate.
Both results would be an upset, depending on which side you asked.
For Ireland, Damon Cross was more than just a fighter. He was their pride, their heart, their identity on the global stage. His dominance was their dominance. His victories, theirs. And if he lost? Who knew what would happen.
For England, Darion Elwards wasn't quite the same beacon, but he was still one of their own. He was English. He was fighting at home. And they wanted to see him stand tall.
The energy in the arena felt dangerously close to something beyond competition. The organizers could sense it. If emotions ran too high, if this fight ended in the wrong way, who's to say the crowd wouldn't explode?
Fights like these had consequences beyond just the sport.
They could only hope that no incidents broke out between the crowds once this was over.
Damon stepped toward the cage, his pace steady, his demeanor casual. Usually, he'd drop to all fours, crawling into the octagon like a predator entering its domain. It was a signature of his, a silent message that he was here to hunt.
Tonight, he just walked in.
No theatrics. No dramatics. Just business.
The crowd's deafening boos continued, but Damon barely acknowledged them. He