The night passed slowly after the chaos of the arena.
Damon had done it, won the light heavyweight title, kept his middleweight belt, and walked out undefeated.
But once the cameras shut off and the noise faded, he was just a man with his family, tired and hungry.
They didn't go anywhere fancy. Just a quiet, open restaurant that had been arranged in advance.
It wasn't packed, just comfortable, with enough privacy to let them breathe.
Damon sat at the center of the table, the belt was in the car in a suitcase, his jacket draped over the chair behind him. Ava sat in his lap, half-asleep with her cheek pressed to his chest.
Victor and Macey sat on one side, both worn out but smiling. Victor looked like he was finally relaxing for the first time that week.
Macey ordered coffee but barely touched it, focused more on checking that everyone was okay.
Svetlana sat across from Damon, holding his gaze every few minutes like she still couldn't believe he'd done it. She reached for his hand under the table. Damon squeezed her fingers gently.
Aoife had taken a seat beside Macey, keeping an eye on Ava.
Every now and then, she'd glance at her son and exhale slowly, still processing the image of him standing tall in that cage, belts and blood both part of the same picture.
There wasn't much talk about the fight. Just small things, food orders, joking about how loud the crowd had been, checking if Ava wanted dessert.
Damon didn't speak much. Not because he didn't have anything to say, but because he didn't need to. His arm stayed around Ava, his hand stayed in Svetlana's.
When they finally left the restaurant, it was close to midnight. The city was calm.
Back at the hotel, Damon carried Ava to the elevator himself. She didn't say a word, just hugged his neck tighter.
"Hey baby, are you tired?"
Ava didn't answer. She just rested her head against Damon's chest, her little hand curling up, thumb drifting toward her mouth out of habit. Damon caught it gently before it reached her lips, remembering what Svetlana had told him—too much thumb-sucking would mess with her teeth.
Ava looked up at him for a moment, her eyes half-open and unfocused. She didn't say anything. She just lowered her hand again and pressed her cheek back into his chest, content with the warmth and rhythm of his breathing.
Svetlana walked behind them, her voice soft and amused. "She must be really tired."
It was easy to tell. Ava only ever went quiet when exhaustion hit.
When she was upset or cranky, she'd make sure the whole room knew. But when she was this silent, it usually meant she was seconds away from sleep.
Damon shifted her slightly in his arms, holding her more securely as they walked toward the hotel elevator.
"She'll knock out before we get to the room," he said quietly, adjusting her blanket. "She's out."
Svetlana smiled and caught up to his side, brushing her fingers lightly across Ava's hair. "She did well tonight. Cheered the whole time. Cried a little when you got hit, though."
Damon sighed through his nose, then kissed the top of Ava's head.
"Yeah... she's her mother's daughter."
That earned him a smirk and a small nudge from Svetlana as they waited for the elevator to open.
In the elevator, Svetlana stood close to Damon, her arm lightly brushing against his.
Ava was fast asleep in his arms, her soft breaths steady against his chest. The hum of the elevator filled the quiet moment between them.
"Hey," Svetlana said, tilting her head slightly. "What's next now? You've got two belts."
Damon looked down at her, his voice low and calm. "Well, I've got to defend the middleweight title soon. If I don't, people will say I'm holding up the division."
She nodded slowly, already expecting that answer. "And after that?"
He shrugged a little. "I don't know. Honestly. I've hit goals most fighters don't reach in their whole careers." He paused, shifting Ava slightly in his arms. "But I do know what I'm doing tonight."
Svetlana raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Damon looked at her, steady and relaxed, and leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the lips.
She smiled, shook her head lightly, and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "You never stop, do you?"
He grinned. "Not when I'm winning."
Inside the UFA headquarters, the lights were dimmed low in one of the executive conference rooms. A digital screen lit the far wall with bold white letters [THE SUPREME FIGHTER]
Ronan Black sat at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair with a bottle of water in one hand and a tablet resting in front of him.
Around him were a mix of executives, matchmakers, media producers, marketing heads. Everyone looked slightly on edge, aware they were about to pitch something important.
Ronan glanced around. "Alright," he said, voice flat. "What do you have?"
A woman near the front stood up. She wore a sharp black jacket and held a remote. With a click, the slide on the screen changed to a new title [Supreme Fighter: Season 31, Cape Town, South Africa.]
She spoke clearly. "This season, we're taking it to Cape Town. Fresh atmosphere, strong local support, new scenery for our content. The region's booming with interest, and it's untapped compared to Vegas, Rio, or London. Logistically, it's all been greenlit, production, permits, the works."
Ronan gave a nod, gesturing for her to continue.
She tapped the remote again. "We're pushing harder than ever this season. 185ers and 205ers only, middleweights and light heavyweights.
And the format will include a live crowd for weekly elimination fights, streamed globally. Think old-school TUF meets modern fight night."
Another click. "And the coaches…"
The next slide popped up, showing two familiar names in bold.
Damon Cross vs. Ivan Novak
Double Champ vs. Interim Champ. Middleweight king vs. rising challenger.
The tension in the room shifted instantly.
"We've seen the numbers," she said, voice rising with energy. "Their interaction at the post-fight press conference already made headlines. Socials are exploding. Fans are split. We haven't seen this kind of organic rivalry in a while, and now we can capitalize on it."
She turned to Ronan. "These two? They're perfect. Both elite, both champions, and both proud. This thing sells itself. And the finale? Set it up to be the undisputed Middleweight Championship."
Ronan smirked, slow and satisfied. He leaned forward, placing his water bottle down on the table.
"You're tellin' me we got a double champ coaching against a guy who thinks he's better than him… and they've already started talkin' shit in public?" He paused, looked at the screen. "We can sell the hell outta this."
Another exec chimed in. "They're complete opposites. Damon's already a household name. Calm, calculated, built from the ground up. Ivan's brash, wild, Eastern Euro toughness. And he's been walking through people."
"Exactly," Ronan said. "We don't even need to write anything. The storyline's already there."
He pointed at the screen. "Make it official. Damon Cross vs. Ivan Novak. Supreme Fighter coaches. Start locking in the cast. I want these cameras rolling in four weeks."
He stood from his seat. "And keep them apart until filming starts. No gym run-ins, no media scrums, no interviews side-by-side. You let this thing boil until the first face-off."
The room started buzzing with quiet urgency as people grabbed devices, took notes, and started making calls.
Ronan walked out of the room without saying another word.