As the team moved out, Damon took a small step aside.
Svetlana was waiting near the exit, and without hesitation, he pulled her into a hug, firm, close. He kissed her forehead gently, holding her for a second longer than usual.
She looked up at him with a calm smile, but her eyes said everything, pride, worry, love.
She squeezed his hand before turning to make her way toward the front row.
Damon watched her walk off before joining his team again, their pace steady as they headed down the long corridor.
The sound shifted the deeper they walked. Faint roars from the crowd, muffled by concrete and distance, began to bleed through.
They reached the last stop, the prep room just before the tunnel.
There were mats on the floor, stools, buckets, towels, mirrors. A large monitor played the event feed in real time.
Water bottles lined the side table, and a small crate held last-minute essentials, ice packs, extra tape, emergency stitching gear no one hoped to use.
Damon stood still for a second.
This was the quiet before everything. The last breath before the fire.
In the prep area, a few staff members waited, clipboard checks, earpieces in, focused on time cues. Everything was running on schedule.
Damon stood near the mats, slowly shifting on his feet, rolling his shoulders, breathing deep.
Inside the arena, it was packed.
Phones in hand, cameras ready.
The cage sat under the lights, the mat showing clear blood spots from the earlier knockout, fresh reminders of what this sport was.
In the commentary booth, the voices were dialed in.
Jon Goodman: "Alright folks, up next, one of the most anticipated bouts of the night. Ismael Desayen versus Damon Cross. This one? Legacy written all over it."
Rich Alvarez: "Desayen has done it all, former champion, highlight-reel striker, and this is his final dance. But make no mistake, he's not here to hand off the torch quietly. He wants to leave with one last statement."
Marvin Duke: "And what better way than against the undefeated World MMA Tournament champion? Damon Cross is on fire. His rise has been terrifying. This is the toughest test either man has faced in a long, long time."
The lights in the arena dimmed suddenly. A hum ran through the crowd.
Desayen's music hit. The bass rolled heavy, a modern African beat mixed with sharp trap drums. Spotlights spun, flashing toward the tunnel.
He emerged, flanked by two dancers in traditional garb, bare chest, wraps on their wrists and feet. All three began a sharp, synchronized dance.
Desayen hit rhythmic steps, side-to-side shoulder rolls, chest pops, sudden freezes with his fists raised, a sharp spin on one heel. The movements were a blend of footwork and war dance, agile, fierce, celebratory.
Some fans stood to record. Others chanted his name. Even those rooting for Damon couldn't help but react.
Jon Goodman: "Look at this entrance! Desayen isn't walking to the cage, he's commanding the moment."
Rich Alvarez: "He's been doing this for years, and now he's dancing to his own finish line. Win or lose, the man's making sure we remember this walk."
Marvin Duke: "That's legacy, man. You don't just fight. You entertain. You leave something behind. This? This is beautiful."
As the beat dropped once more.
As Desayen circled the cage, the lights shifted again.
A heavy drop hit, bass punching through the speakers, layered with a sharp Irish whistle tune over a dark drill beat.
The crowd popped instantly.
Jon Goodman: "Oh, you hear that? You already know what time it is."
Rich Alvarez: "The man himself, Damon Cross. World Tournament Champion. And this crowd is ready for him."
From the tunnel, Damon stepped out, wearing a hoodie, hood down. He had a slight grin on his face, soaking in the crowd.
He nodded to the beat, giving a small bounce to his step, not cocky, just calm and in the zone.
As he walked, he threw a quick playful jab toward the camera and winked. Someone in the crowd shouted his name, and he gave a finger point and half smile.
He walked up to the official at the cage side, stopping as they gave him the usual once-over, mouthpiece in, gloves tight, cup check, quick dab of Vaseline.
Damon pulled off his hoodie and shirt in one motion, handing them off to his corner. He'd already taken off his warm-up pants in the back, ready to go.
They gave him the nod.
He turned toward the cage.
And just like that, the grin faded.
No more bounce. No more charm.
As he reached the steps, Damon dropped low, walking up them on all fours, smooth and steady, a familiar, primal routine that marked the shift. The crowd reacted, but he didn't flinch.
He stepped through the cage door, slow and deliberate.
The moment had arrived.
Both fighters stood just feet apart, eyes locked. Neither blinked, neither shifted. The tension between them pulled tight like wire.
Desayen crouched low, stretching out one leg at a time, loosening up. Even then, his gaze never wavered. He kept his eyes on Damon, calm and unshaken, like he was already inside the rhythm of the fight.
Damon didn't move much. Hands loose at his sides, his breathing steady, locked in.
The cage door shut with a heavy clang behind them.
Referee Samuel Cortez stepped in, arms at his sides, giving them space but setting the tone.
Then came the voice that had announced the biggest fights in the sport.
Deuce Baffer stepped to the center of the cage, microphone in hand, the crowd rising in anticipation. The fighters still didn't break eye contact.
The booming voice of Deuce Baffer echoed through the arena, snapping both men out of their silent stare.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!"
The crowd erupted on cue, energy flooding the arena.
"THIS IS YOUR CO-MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!!"