Damon sat at the far side of the table, belt resting in front of him, still carrying the fresh marks of last night's fight.
Across from him were three UFA officials, two familiar faces from operations, one newer name from international scheduling. Ronan Black sat farther down, hands folded, saying nothing for now.
Damon leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice steady.
"I want to move up," he said. "Light heavyweight. I've cleaned out this division. At this point, all they can give me are rematches. Guys I've already beaten—some of them twice. And it's not like any of them came close to beating me."
The room stayed quiet.
He scanned their faces as he continued.
"No one's pushing me here. I'm not trying to run from anything. I just want to fight real challenges. I want that second belt."
One of the executives shifted in his chair. Another glanced down at his notes. The silence wasn't hostile, but it was thick with hesitation.
They didn't like the idea.
Ronan remained silent. His eyes were fixed on the table, one finger tapping lightly against the edge, expression unreadable.
No one spoke right away.
Damon sat back, reading the room.
They weren't ready to give him what he asked for.
And they weren't planning to say it directly either.
One of the officials finally spoke, adjusting his glasses and sitting forward with a measured tone.
"It's not that we don't understand what you're asking for," he began. "But let's be honest, this was your first defense. You haven't really reigned as champion yet. Jumping up now is risky. We think it's better for you to defend the middleweight title a little longer. Build the legacy. There are still contenders in this division."
Damon didn't respond right away. He just stared at the man across the table.
Then he leaned forward.
"Name one," he said calmly. "One top ten guy I haven't already beaten."
The three officials exchanged glances. One of them shifted awkwardly. Another cleared his throat but didn't speak.
After a long pause, the first man finally answered.
"Rematches are fine. That's part of being champion. We're not saying you can't move up, just not yet. Not without a few more defenses."
He hesitated before adding the last part.
"If you insist on going to light heavyweight now, without any real stretch as middleweight champion, then… we'd prefer you vacate the title. We can't have the division held up."
Damon leaned back, expression unchanged.
So that's how it was.
The room stayed heavy after the officials laid out their stance. Damon didn't move, didn't argue, but the air around the table was tight.
That was when Victor leaned forward, hands flat against the table, voice low but firm.
"Let's be clear," Victor said. "Damon hasn't missed weight. Not once. He's never pulled out of a fight. Twenty-three wins. Undefeated. Finished most of his opponents clean."
He glanced down the table, making sure every official was looking at him.
"Saying he's gonna 'hold up' the division isn't factual. Damon's been on every schedule the UFA's given him. If you're worried about activity, you're worried about the wrong guy. He can make weight at middleweight. He can go to light heavyweight. If anyone can handle it, it's him."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"And there's been champions before who've done it. Collin NcGyver held two belts, defended both. No one called that a problem. So why is this different?"
The officials didn't answer right away.
Before they could, Ronan Black finally shifted in his seat, scratching the side of his head like he was tired of the conversation already. He leaned into his mic, voice blunt.
"Listen," Ronan said, "this is real simple. Damon's a savage. Everybody knows it. He's not the guy you gotta chase down to defend a belt. You wanna say he's holding up a division after one defense? Get the fuck outta here with that."
He pointed casually toward the middle of the table.
"If he says he can cut weight and bounce between divisions, let him. You don't get in the way of a guy who shows up, makes weight, and finishes people. That's the kind of fighter we want holding belts, not guys fighting once every two years and crying about rankings."
Ronan leaned back, throwing his hands up lightly.
The room went quiet again, but it wasn't the same kind of silence.
Ronan wasn't against Damon's move.
And after that, no one at the table was going to argue it the same way again.
Ronan leaned back after speaking, arms crossing loosely over his chest. For a moment it felt like the meeting would end there.
But then he leaned forward again, his voice a little calmer, but still carrying that sharp, unmistakable authority.
"Look, kid," Ronan said, locking eyes with Damon. "I'm not saying you can't do it. You're a killer. You can move up, you can win another belt, I don't doubt that."
He shifted his weight, voice firm but a little more measured now.
"But I've been in this business a long time. Fans—" he tapped the table with two fingers, "—they're fickle. They love you when you're on top. But the second you jump around too much, or you're not defending the belt they think you're supposed to defend? They turn, i mean, look at james jonas, the best fighter to have ever lived. He had haters because he didn't fight for a small time. I think he has an incredible resume."
He paused, letting it settle.
"My advice? Stack some defenses first. Beat two, three more guys. Then when you move up, there's no questions. No stupid backlash. No asterisk next to your name."
Ronan shrugged like it was simple math.
"Trust me, it's cleaner that way. It's smarter for your legacy, not just for tonight's headlines."
He sat back again, letting Damon think it through.