The night had finally arrived.
After all the noise, all the press, all the talk, after the switch from Ivan to Shane, there was only one thing left to do.
Damon stood at the tunnel entrance with his team, gloves already on, wrapped hands resting at his sides.
The buzz of the crowd poured in through the walls, muffled but constant, like the hum of a storm waiting to break. His face was calm. His eyes were steady.
But right now, it wasn't his turn.
Music blasted from the speakers. There was no overproduced performance as raw volume and tempo, rage in rhythm.
A remix of punk and street-style hip-hop ripped through the arena, and the crowd immediately reacted.
Some booed loud. Others cheered louder.
Shane Brickland emerged through the curtain, bouncing on his feet, wearing his usual no-frills fight gear, black shorts, old wrestling shoes, and a blank stare like he was walking into a bar fight.
His head was freshly shaved. A thick mustache sat above his clenched jaw. His hands were already clenched into fists before he even hit the walkway.
He kept his hands in place as he just kept talking, or so it sounded like it, bug despite it, Shane carried the air of a man who thought he was better than everyone in the building and didn't care to explain it.
He reached the checkpoint and stepped forward and yanked his shirt off in one go, throwing it toward the floor, following after as he stuck out his arms for the commission, after quickly
They checked him quickly. Wiped his face, ran gloves over his shoulders and waist, felt the tape. He opened his mouth to show the mouthguard.
"Good," the inspector nodded.
His coach didn't say a word, just handed him water and walked with him.
When he reached the steps, Shane paused for a second, looked at the crowd, and flipped them off with both hands.
The arena exploded in noise, half roars, half outrage. Exactly what he wanted.
He stormed up the steps, stomped across the canvas, and threw a hard slap against his own chest before hitting the cage wall twice with his fist.
He paced along the edge, not looking at Damon's tunnel, not looking at anyone in particular.
He was already in the cage. The rest, in his mind, didn't matter.
The lights cut out again.
A bass-heavy beat dropped overhead, similar in energy and tone to his usual walkout, but not an Irish tune.
The crowd's anticipation rose fast. Damon took a steady breath, then stepped forward.
The spotlight flared on, stretching a white-gold path toward the cage.
He stood at the tunnel's mouth, letting the sound wash over him.
The cheers reached a deafening level as fans caught sight of him. Some stood, some raised flags, others chanted his name.
He smiled, bounced lightly on his toes, and began walking down the path.
As he made his way forward, he reached out with one hand. Fans leaned over the railing, and he touched a few hands, firm slaps, brief grips.
The love in their eyes wasn't lost on him. He returned it with a nod and a grin.
Halfway down the walk, he pulled off his shirt and handed it to one of his team members.
The light hit his chest as he rolled his neck and exhaled. His body looked sharp, conditioned, carved, prepared.
At the cage-side checkpoint, the officials waved him forward.
He stopped, lifted his arms, and let them pat him down. They checked his gloves, wiped his face, and nodded him through.
He stepped forward again, now only a few feet from the cage door. Behind him, the chant grew again.
"CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!"
He didn't raise his hands. He didn't gesture for more noise.
He just walked forward, eyes locked on the cage.
As Damon stepped into the cage, his eyes stayed fixed on Shane. He bounced on his toes with measured rhythm, never once glancing at the crowd.
Once he'd reached the center, he gave a final glance toward his corner, then turned his back on his opponent.
He bounced again, shoulders relaxed, arms loose, as if the entire cage belonged to him.
In nature, animals turned their backs when they knew they weren't in danger. When they didn't see the other as a threat.
He finished his bounce, turned back, and faced forward again. His expression never changed. Calm, focused, ready.
The arena lights dimmed, and the crowd's anticipation reached a fever pitch.
Deuce Baffer stepped into the center of the octagon, microphone in hand, his presence commanding attention.
The canvas beneath him bore the marks of earlier battles, proof to the night's intensity.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice resonating through the arena, "this is the main event of the evening!"
The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing off the walls.
"Sanctioned by the Mixed Martial Arts Governing body."
He continued, "Our three judges scoring this contest at cageside are Michael Michealson, Max Maximum, and Daniel Danielson. And when the action begins, our referee is in charge of the octagon: Garne Rowen."
"This championship bout is brought to you by Gain Hydration and Crott Sports Group."
The energy in the arena intensified as Baffer paused, allowing the anticipation to build.
He declared, "For those in attendance and UFA fans watching around the world, this is the moment you've all been waiting for!"
He took a deep breath, his voice rising to a crescendo.
"Live from the sold-out T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas, Nevada,
ITTTTTSSSSSS!!!!! TIMEE!!!!!!!"
"Five rounds for the undisputed UFA Middleweight Championship of the World!"
"INTRODUCING FIRST!!!!!!,
fighting out of the blue corner: a mixed martial artist holding a professional record of 27 wins, no losses.
Standing six feet two inches tall, weighing in at 185 pounds.
Fighting out of Limerick, Ireland
He is the 2-time MMA Middleweight World champion.
PRESENTING, THE REIGNING
DEFENDING, UNDISPUTED UFA Middleweight Champion of the World, the one, the only, 'THE RONIN' DAMON CROSS!"
The crowd's roar was deafening, the atmosphere electric, as Damon stood poised, ready to defend his title.