Theo was about to make headlines—too bad the apocalypse was stealing the front page.

  "Unbelievable. They let a weasel like you into the GFL?" sneered Max, "The Mauler" Mason. He was the opponent for the upcoming fight and a knuckle-dragging stereotype of every meathead bruiser Theo had ever encountered.

  He had a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder and shoulders that seemed permanently hunched from carrying his ego.

  His shaved head gleamed under the stage lights, whilst his cauliflower ears told a story of years in brutal combat, though his insults suggested most of the brain cells had been left behind in the cage.

  Max’s neck was so thick it looked like it had aspirations of becoming a second torso. “I’ve seen moms doing boxercise at my gym hit harder than you.”

  MMA had been a sport once, but now? It was edging closer to wrestling every day. You weren’t just a fighter anymore—you had to be a character. People didn’t pay to watch skill; they paid to watch a story. They wanted someone to love, someone to hate. As long as they watched, it didn’t matter which. Time to put the mask back on.

  Theo felt the cameras on him, the energy of the crowd buzzing in his chest. Be the hero or be the villain, just make them watch. He let the smirk curl at the corner of his lips before leaning into the mic. The heavyweight prospect stood at 6'4" with a lean, muscular frame. He radiated a mix of cocky confidence and restless energy.

  His brown hair was perpetually messy, a perfect match for his lopsided grin, and his icy blue eyes gleamed with a spark of mischief that normally made him a crowd favourite.

  "Oh, your gym caters to mothers? That explains a lot—especially since you’ve been dribbling through this conference like a toddler."

  Max’s hands slammed onto the table, rattling the microphones. His nostrils flared as he leaned forward, veins bulging in his thick neck. “Funny guy, Kane. Come say that over here!”

  The event manager visibly flinched, clutching her clipboard like it was a lifeline.

  Theo chuckled derisively, "Mate, we are literally going to fight on Saturday. Why would you offer to get knocked out for free?"

  He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Is this some reverse-psychology mind game? Try to lull me into overconfidence, make me think you're an easy win?" He gasped dramatically. "Max, I didn’t know you had layers! You’re like an onion… in the sense that children cry when they look at you."

  More laughter, though this time the event manager’s face had paled significantly. Theo could practically hear her internal monologue screaming: Please don’t let this devolve into a brawl again. Please.

  Max didn’t get the memo. In a flash, he was on his feet, lunging across the table with a snarl that would have made a pit bull reconsider its life choices. Theo’s instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up, and he sidestepped just as Max’s fist came crashing down where his head had been.

  Holy shit, he almost caught me, Theo thought despite acting like he was made out of titanium.

  The crowd erupted into chaos. Security scrambled to separate them, but Max was in full rampage mode, swatting at anyone who got too close as security attempted to hold him back.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Theo said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Save it for the ring, you bald berk. Or are you trying to get yourself out of it early?”

  Max roared, lunging again, but this time the security team was ready. They hauled him back, kicking and screaming, while Theo gave a little wave to the cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Mauler! Let’s hear it for his breathtaking performance in interpretive tantrum-throwing.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The audience’s laughter and applause followed Theo as he was escorted offstage by Tina, the event manager, ostensibly for his own safety, but mostly because Tina looked like she was about to have a stroke.

  In the quiet of the backstage room, Theo finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He sank into the only chair in sight, a lumpy relic that felt like it had been salvaged from a dumpster and given a second chance out of pity.

  For the first time all day—no cameras, no crowds, no expectations. Just him. And his thoughts.

  And maybe, just maybe, a tiny sliver of doubt.

  Was he pushing too hard? The GFL was his shot, his one real chance to claw his way up from the underground scene and make it as a pro. He loved the showmanship, the trash talk, the spectacle—he was good at it. But sometimes, when the lights dimmed and the noise faded, it felt like he was talking to an audience that never really saw him.

  The crowd cheered, they jeered, they ate up the character. But the real Theo? No one knew him.

  No one wanted to.

  "Meh, you’re a boring bastard anyway, Theo," he muttered, rubbing his temples. His phone buzzed on the table—probably a barrage of angry texts from Coach Tom, each one more profanity-laden than the last.

  Except… nothing.

  No texts. No calls. No notifications. Not even a passive-aggressive reminder from his gym buddy to drink more water.

  Theo frowned. Weird. Tom never missed a chance to chew him out after a presser. The guy was a martial arts purist, always harping on about “honour” and “discipline.” “Go be a wrestler if you want to dance like a monkey,” he’d say.

  Theo glanced at the clock. 12:03 p.m.

  And right then, the world ended.

  It began as a low hum, faint and almost imperceptible, like the resonance of a far-off engine. Theo barely had time to sit up before the walls around him shimmered, their solid edges rippling as though submerged in water. His breath caught as cracks snaked along the ceiling—not cracks of plaster or concrete, but fissures of light, jagged and impossibly bright.

  “What in the hell?” Theo whispered, his voice swallowed by the strange, growing vibration in the air. He stepped toward the door, but the floor beneath him undulated, throwing him off balance. The light from the cracks intensified, spreading across the walls and ceiling like veins of molten energy.

  A sound, sharp and crystalline, pierced through the hum. Theo flinched as the very fabric of the room shattered—no, dissolved. Pieces of his surroundings disintegrated into fragments of white light, floating upward like embers before vanishing entirely. He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing against nothing but cold, empty space where the door had been moments before.

  “Theo, relax” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling as panic gripped his chest. “You must have let your guard down and he got you. This is obviously just a—”

  The floor vanished beneath his feet.

  Theo stumbled, his arms flailing for something solid, something real. He fell, but not downward—there was no sensation of gravity, no pull. He was suspended, weightless in a void that stretched endlessly in every direction. Around him, the world dissolved into a lattice of glowing grids, infinite and alien, stretching into nothingness.

  His mind rebelled against the sight. It was too much, too vast, too incomprehensible. His muscles tensed, but there was nothing to brace against, nothing to fight. He was utterly, terrifyingly powerless.

  A pressure built behind his eyes, a pounding that matched the rhythm of the hum now vibrating through his entire body. He clenched his fists, willing his legs to move, his lungs to breathe, his mind to focus—do something, anything!

  But there was nothing he could do.

  The hum reached a crescendo, a deafening symphony of energy and light. Theo’s vision blurred as the grid pulsed with blinding intensity. His chest heaved, panic searing through him like fire—then, darkness.

  His last thought, faint and bitterly ironic, was that the universe really knew how to ruin a good day.