The tournament pushed forward, fight after fight, until every weight class had its finalists. Now, only one night remained, the night where champions would be crowned across all divisions.
All the noise surrounding Damon's controversy had finally died out. The outrage, the media storms, the debates, it all faded as quickly as it had come. The MMA world had moved on, fixated on the upcoming fights and the monumental night ahead.
Damon had even started to think that maybe, just maybe, the interview they had set up would be scrapped. Surely, after everything, they'd realize it wasn't worth the trouble anymore.
But he underestimated the greed of the organizers.
Victor walked into the room, a stack of papers in hand, shaking his head with a half-smirk.
"They sent the interview questions," he said, tossing them onto the table.
Damon glanced at them, then back at Victor. "You're kidding."
Victor scoffed. "I wish I was."
Damon leaned forward, picking up the papers and skimming through them. He didn't even have to read past the first few to know exactly what this was, damage control. They weren't just looking for a post-fight interview.
They wanted a spectacle.
They wanted him to address the controversy, play nice, maybe even feed into their marketing schemes.
Damon exhaled sharply, tossing the papers back onto the table. "Yeah… that's not happening."
Victor chuckled, sitting across from him. "I figured you'd say that."
Damon skimmed through the papers again, but this time, his expression darkened. It wasn't just about the usual fight-related questions or hyping up the finals.
They were asking deeply personal shit.
"How was your childhood?"
"Can you talk about the struggles you faced growing up?"
"What role did your parents play in shaping you as a fighter?"
Damon clenched his jaw.
He had never publicly spoken about his past. His childhood wasn't a secret, but it wasn't their business, either. He had no intention of giving these vultures a sob story so they could spin it into headlines and cash in on his trauma.
These pieces of shit knew exactly what they were doing.
Victor saw the shift in his expression. "I take it you got to the real bullshit."
Damon tossed the papers aside, leaning back in his chair, his fingers rubbing his temple. "They're trying to dig. They want me to bleed out my past for their ratings."
Victor exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Typical. They act like they care, but all they want is to slap it on a headline—'Damon Cross Opens Up About His Painful Past'—just to get clicks."
Damon let out a humorless chuckle. "And the best part? If I actually talk about it, they'll milk it dry. If I don't, they'll paint me as 'cold and distant' or some shit."
Victor leaned forward. "So, what's the move? You gonna let them run with this?"
Damon's eyes darkened. "Fuck no."
Damon let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the couch.
"I just wanna be done with them."
Victor, who had been flipping through the papers, raised an eyebrow. "You wanna forfeit?"
Damon immediately shook his head, scoffing. "Hell no. I'm winning this thing. Taking the money, whatever the rewards are, and walking the fuck out."
Victor smirked, satisfied with that answer, but Damon wasn't done.
All of a sudden, he grinned. A slow, calculated smile that told Victor something was brewing in that chaotic mind of his.
"How about we send back questions of our own? Force them to accept. I doubt they will, but still."
Victor looked skeptical at first, tilting his head. But then, he chuckled. A confident, almost amused smirk stretched across his face.
"Sure. Draft them up. I'll make sure they at least see it."
Damon wasted no time. He grabbed a pen, flipped the interview sheet over, and started writing.
The room was quiet except for the scratch of the pen against paper. He didn't hold back, matching their prying nature with questions that would make them uncomfortable.
When he was done, he slid the paper to Victor.
Victor read it. Then read it again. Then looked at Damon like he had lost his mind.
"You serious?" Victor asked, lips twitching with amusement.
Damon just shrugged. "They wanna dig into my life? Let's see how they like it when the script is flipped."
Victor let out a low whistle, shaking his head. He grabbed the paper, pulled out a pen, and signed off on it.
"Okay. Might not work. Might work. But I'll make sure they at least see it." He stood up, rolling the papers in his hand. "But you are really fucking crazy for this."
Damon just smirked. "Ain't that why you're still here?"
Victor walked away, the papers rolled in his hand, his expression unreadable.
Despite what he had told Damon, he wasn't just going to make sure they saw the questions, he was going to make sure they accepted them.
This wasn't just about balancing the playing field. It was about making them pay a price for their scummy tactics.
Victor understood how the game worked. He had seen it all, fighters being exploited, personal tragedies being turned into headlines, painful pasts being repackaged as clickbait.
The organizers wanted their viral moment. They wanted to pry into Damon's childhood, hoping for a story they could sell.
But if they wanted to play dirty, then they better be ready to bleed for it.
Victor knew that Damon's past wouldn't stay hidden forever. That was just the nature of fame.
But if that story was going to come out, it wouldn't be because some greedy executives forced it out of him with a bullshit question disguised as journalism.
It would be on Damon's terms. His story. His control.
Victor planned on making damn sure of that.
Victor had to admit, Damon had changed over the past few yearss.
From the moment he stepped into The Supreme Fighter house to now standing at the edge of winning the biggest tournament in MMA history, Damon had grown.
He wasn't just a prospect anymore; he was a star, one of the most feared fighters in the sport.
That confidence was a good thing. Essential, even. A fighter who didn't believe in himself was already defeated before stepping into the cage.
But there was a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and Victor had seen too many fighters walk that razor-thin edge, only to fall.
He hoped Damon wouldn't be one of them.
He had seen how fast overconfidence could turn into carelessness.
Right now, Damon's belief in himself was unshakable.