In the back hallway of the arena, away from the noise and lights, Damon Cross sat on a bench with his hands slowly clapping together. A faint nod followed, lips pressed in thought.
"That was an entertaining match," he muttered.
He leaned back against the wall, still watching the screen in front of him. The replay looped, Sharim's kick attempt, the overhand, the final kick.
Ivan had been improving.
Not that he was trash back in The Supreme Fighter, far from it. Ivan was always a workhorse. Gritty. Grappling-heavy.
Built like someone carved from wrestling mats and judo throws. But this? This version of Ivan was different.
More precise. More dangerous.
Damon tilted his head slightly as the screen cut to a slow-motion replay of Ivan's hammer fists.
'Yeah. That's the mindset.'
He understood exactly what Ivan was doing. He knew what that fight meant, not just the win, but how it was won.
Ivan could've taken him down earlier. Could've dominated in the clinch, dragged it out. But he didn't.
He used Sharim's world.
Because he did the same. He liked going into the places people thought they were safe. Liked taking away comfort. Style. Identity.
There was something deeply satisfying about that.
He watched the screen go to commercial, then finally stood, rolling his shoulders loose.
"Ivan," he said to no one in particular, "you're almost there."
The words weren't loud.
But they didn't need to be.
What he said didn't come from arrogance, at least, that's what he told himself.
He respected Ivan. Always had. Even back in The Supreme Fighter, when they were just hungry prospects living out of duffel bags and chasing airtime, Ivan had been one of the few who never talked too much and never faked confidence.
Tonight, that same Ivan had shown something new.
But as Damon pulled on his hoodie and reached for his water bottle, the truth sat quietly in his chest.
Ivan had improved. A lot.
But he wasn't there yet.
Not here. Not at the level Damon lived in now, where every opponent had seen everything, where split-seconds decided entire careers, where losing once could mean vanishing for good.
Damon watched Ivan move cleaner, hit harder, break through pressure. But the gaps were still there.
The footwork wasn't sharp enough under fire. The setups lacked layers. The feints were honest.
And maybe that's why the fight was entertaining.
Because Damon knew exactly how it would end if it were him in that cage.
Ivan was getting close.
But he still had a long way to go.
Damon stood up and stretched, arms overhead, neck rolling side to side with a quiet pop.
His match was still hours away, main event slot, as always. Three fights remained. One of them the co-main.
He sat back down, reaching for his bottle as the screen showed Ivan exiting the cage.
The crowd roared behind him, flashes going off, cornermen clapping his shoulders.
Damon watched for a moment, then leaned back, gaze softening.
He missed her already.
Earlier that day, he'd called, quick check-in before warm-ups. Svetlana had picked up with a smile, camera angled low so he could see Ava kicking her blanket off in the crib.
They were fine. Laughing and talking like it was just another day.
But it wasn't for him.
He was halfway across the country in another locker room, waiting to fight someone who'd trained their entire life just to ruin his night.
And he wanted to be done with it.
He wanted to finish this night, get his win, and get the hell out, back to his daughter.
His hands tightened around the bottle once before he set it down.
Damon smirked at himself, shaking his head.
Yeah. He still wanted to fight.
He couldn't deny that.
The thrill of it. the calm before the walk, the sound of the cage door closing, the split-second decisions making, the rhythm, the violence, it was still in him, it was him. He loved it. And not just the winning, but the doing. The craft.
But then there was Ava.
He wanted that, too. The warmth. The quiet. The parts of life that didn't require a mouthguard or a cutman.
Maybe that's why the feelings clashed the way they did. He wasn't stuck between two lives. He was trying to live both. The fighter and the father. The calm and the storm.
Win this fight. Catch a flight. Go home.
So he didn't dwell on it.
He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes on the screen. The next fight was starting. The lights dimmed. The walkout music hit.
Damon settled back in, letting his thoughts go.
For now, he just watched the show.
The following matches delivered.
Damon sat through each one, arms crossed, quietly enjoying the violence. There was no need to analyze, he let himself just be a fan for once.
Each fight brought something different. Gritty exchanges, sudden knockouts, and technical warfares.
Eventually, his team filtered in. Victor first, then one of the assistant coaches, and finally Joey with a tablet in hand, already tracking trends on social media.
Damon didn't say much and just nodded as they took their places around him.
The night was getting closer to his moment, but he wasn't rushing it.
One of the prelim winners had landed a knockout so clean it silenced the crowd for a second, sharp elbows in the clinch that folded his opponent like a switch got flipped.
Damon leaned forward when it happened, eyes narrowing for a beat, elbows were such dangerous weapon if you coulf land one clean, they could either cut you or put you out.
"He got knocked into the void," Joey muttered under his breath.
He had to give it to them. The fighters tonight came to make statements.
It made him look forward to his turn just a little more.