Deuce Baffer turned, lifting the mic again as the crowd's volume dipped just enough to hear him clearly.
The lights shifted again, cutting sharp toward the red corner.
"Fighting out of the red corner, a mixed martial artist holding a professional record of 25 wins and 7 losses. Standing six feet one inch tall, weighing in at 185 pounds even. Fighting out of Las Vegas, Nevada, by way of Riverside, California..."
There was a slight rise of noise—boos clashing with rowdy cheers.
"He is a former UFA Middleweight Champion..."
Baffer leaned in as if winding a spring.
"...SHANE BRICKLAND!"
Shane raised both arms, grinning wild, nodding his head as the crowd responded in every direction—some with approval, many more with venom.
He thrived in it, arms still up, pacing slowly as if he owned the cage.
And now, with both men introduced, the war was moments away.
As Deuce Baffer exited the cage, the camera panned across the electric crowd. The commentary team picked up immediately.
"Well, here we are," one of them said. "This one's been brewing for a long time—Damon Cross versus Shane Brickland. The rematch. The last fight in Damon's middleweight reign, and probably Brickland's last chance to get that win back."
The other added, "You could feel the tension even during the walkouts. Damon walked in like a man already thinking about legacy. Brickland walked in like he's ready to turn the place upside down. The build-up wasn't personal in the traditional sense, but when you talk about ending careers, you're talking real stakes."
"And let's not forget," the first commentator continued, "Brickland has been chasing this rematch since the day he lost. He's called Damon soft, said he plays house, tried to turn the fans against him. But Cross? He didn't bite—not until now. He wanted this to be settled in the cage."
"It's the best kind of fight: built on unfinished business and respect buried beneath a pile of trash talk. One man leaves with the last word. One walks out champion. Let's see who it is."
The final voice chimed in, tone a bit jokey. "Well, I wouldn't say there's respect here."
The crowd had quieted slightly, anticipation thick in the air. The referee stood tall at the center of the octagon, then raised his arm and gestured.
"Fighters—step to the center."
Damon and Shane walked forward.
Neither spoke. Neither blinked. Just two men locking eyes with everything they had carried into this fight—the pride, the noise, the past.
Damon's shoulders were relaxed, chin slightly lowered as he stared through Shane. Brickland met the gaze head-on, bouncing once on his heels, chewing his mouthguard as if itching to get started.
The referee lifted his hands to separate them slightly.
The referee stepped between them, voice steady as he spoke to them low. "Alright, gentlemen, we've gone over the rules in the back. Protect yourselves at all times, obey my commands at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now."
Damon stared ahead, jaw set, eyes locked on Shane. Brickland stood with arms loose at his side, mouthguard already biting down, giving nothing but a crooked grin.
Damon simply tilted his head, then stepped back.
Shane grinned and turned without hesitation.
"Back to your corners."
They walked back, turning without a word.
The ref looked to Brickland. "Ready?"
Then to Damon. "Ready?"
A single breath. "Ready."
The ref stepped back and raised his hand.
The cage became a world unto itself.
"And it has begun—Damon Cross and Shane Brickland face off!"
The bell rang. Damon stepped forward lightly, bouncing with a loose rhythm. He didn't raise his hands high.
Instead, he let them hover at mid-level and began circling, eyes locked on Shane. His stance was casual, almost dismissive.
Then he dropped both hands entirely and started swaying his head side to side, rolling his shoulders like he was shadowboxing without an opponent.
Shane moved in, tight guard up. He pawed forward with a jab, expecting engagement.
Damon leaned just out of range and exaggeratedly looked behind him like someone had called his name from the crowd.
The commentators reacted with a mix of humor and recognition.
"Oh, come on! Damon's already messing with him!"
"That's classic mind games, look at that grin."
Damon flicked a jab, not to land it, but to tap Shane's lead glove, then circled left again with a bounce in his step.
Shane threw a low kick. Damon checked it clean and immediately wagged a finger at him, smirking.
Shane pushed forward.
Damon slipped, moved his head like water, and sidestepped, then raised his hand in a "come on then" gesture.
He grinned wider, hands still low. Shane threw a hard overhand right.
Damon leaned just enough for it to graze the air, then hit him with a slap-like lead hook across the cheek.
"Ohh! He tagged him with that, taunting and scoring!"
"Stockton slap!!. Damon is in full play mode."
Shane charged. Damon retreated just enough, stepped to the side, and bounced in place.
He hit a quick one-two to the body and then backed off again, all while nodding and mouthing something the cameras couldn't catch.
Shane tried to clinch. Damon let it happen, only to spin out instantly and tap the side of Shane's ribs with a knuckle jab as they separated.
"Brickland's trying to drag this into a brawl," one commentator said. "But Damon is painting on a canvas right now."
Damon feinted a low kick. Shane bit, dropping his base. Damon laughed out loud and walked backward with his chin up, completely relaxed.
Shane threw another kick.
Damon caught it with one hand and pointed at him with the other, then let it go without countering. The crowd roared in amusement.
"He's clowning him. He's absolutely clowning him."
Still, Shane wasn't out of it. He stepped in and managed to clip Damon with a short left hook during one of the exchanges.
It wasn't clean, but it landed. Damon stepped back, shook his head like it was nothing, and mouthed "Good shot."
Then, just as Shane closed distance again, Damon switched stance, southpaw to orthodox, and flicked out a snapping jab, followed by a spinning back kick that caught Shane's ribs.