The hum of the crowd filters in through the walls, a distant rumble that seems to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat. I sit on the bench, hands wrapped, feeling the familiar weight of the gloves on my lap. My breathing is slow, steady, and controlled. I’ve been here a thousand times before, but the energy is always the same. Focus. Calm. Precision.

  I’m not here for the spectacle. I’m not here to prove anything to the world. I’ve never cared about the cameras, the lights, the noise. The ring, the fight—that’s where I find my peace. Everything outside of it? It doesn’t matter.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder—old, steady, a hand that’s been there since the beginning. I look up to see Gus, my trainer, pacing in front of me, as calm as ever. He’s been with me through every step of this journey. From the early days, when no one knew my name, to now, when everyone does. I owe a lot to this man, more than just the fight.

  “McKenzie’s smart,” Gus says, stopping his pacing to face me. He crosses his arms, giving me that steady look.

  “Real thinker in the ring. Doesn’t just rely on his strength—he’s always studying, watching for openings, looking to turn your moves against you.”

  I nod. I know McKenzie well enough. He’s number two in the rankings for a reason. Not the strongest, but he fights with his head. Every punch is calculated, and every feint is designed to set up the next move. Brains over brawn. I respect that.

  “He’s quick,” Gus continues, his eyes narrowing like he’s running through a mental checklist. “Loves to work the body, wear you down. If you leave yourself open, he’ll pick you apart. But you know how to handle that.”

  Of course, I do. We’ve trained for this. I’ve trained my entire month for this. In the ring, I don’t think—I just know. It’s not about brute strength; it’s about mastery. The mind guides the body. Control is everything.

  “I’ve seen him break down bigger guys than you,” Gus adds, leaning in slightly.

  “But he’s not like you. He doesn’t have what you’ve got.” His voice drops lower, just enough to cut through the noise seeping through the walls.

  “Experience. Patience. Control. He’s still chasing, trying to prove himself.”

  I take a deep breath, feeling the quiet power in my chest. I trust Gus with my life. I’ve always trusted him. He’s why I’ve stayed on this path, even when everything outside the ring threatened to pull me away. He knows me better than anyone. When he speaks, I listen because he’s never steered me wrong.

  My eyes close for a moment, the sounds of the crowd fading into the background. I center myself the way I always do before a fight. There’s no room for ego here. Ego gets you hurt. Ego blinds you. It’s not about proving I’m the best. It’s about the fight itself—the art, the discipline.

  “I’ve got this,” I say quietly, more to myself than to Gus.

  He pats my shoulder, a light touch, but it’s enough.

  “I know you do, kid.”

  I stand, the gloves heavy but familiar in my hands. My body feels light, fluid, ready. There’s no rush of adrenaline, no anxiety. Only clarity. The world falls away when I step into the ring, and all that remains is the moment.

  “Remember,” Gus says as we move toward the door, “don’t let him control the pace. Keep your distance and make him come to you. He’s going to try to outthink you. Make him react to you instead.”

  I nod again. It’s all second nature now. The fight isn’t about strength or speed. It’s about control. The more you control the rhythm, the more the fight belongs to you.

  Before I can open the door, it swings open. Jason Whitlock, my manager, steps in, his presence loud and forceful, as always. He’s in a hurry, as usual, a ball of energy that seems to never stop moving. He claps a hand on my shoulder, but there’s no calm in his touch. It’s all force, like he’s trying to transfer his overblown confidence into me.

  “There’s my champ!” Jason grins, his teeth gleaming, his voice booming through the room like he’s already giving a victory speech.

  “You’re gonna destroy McKenzie tonight, you hear me? That guy doesn’t stand a chance. Brains over brawn—please. He’s going to overthink himself into the ground, and you’ll be there to knock him out in the third, maybe even the second. Hell, why wait? First round, let’s send a message, huh?”

  Jason’s always been like this—talking big, hyping everything up like a circus. To him, the fight is the show, the drama, the spectacle. He thrives in it, lives for the headlines, the trash talk, the chaos. He’s built an image around me—Tobias “Stone” Kane, the bad guy, the cocky fighter who stirs the pot and knocks opponents out with a smirk. That’s what the media eats up, and Jason feeds it to them.

  But he’s never understood. I don’t care about the image. I never have.

  I look up at him and nod, offering a small smile, but inside, I know I’m not taking him seriously. McKenzie isn’t someone to underestimate. Jason sees him as just another stepping stone, another guy to bulldoze on the way to a bigger paycheck. But I know better. McKenzie is careful and methodical. He’s got his own game plan, and I respect that.

  Jason, on the other hand, sees McKenzie the same way he sees every opponent. Another underdog. Someone beneath us. “That guy’s a chump, man. All brain, no guts. You’ll see it the moment he steps into the ring. He’ll be so busy calculating his way through the first round, you’ll drop him before he knows what hit him.”

  I stay quiet. Over the years I’ve learned that it’s easier to let Jason talk. It’s what he’s good at. And in some way, I’m grateful for him, even if I don’t always agree with his approach. Without Jason, I wouldn’t be where I am today. He’s been the one navigating the chaos of the media, the contracts, the constant pressure to be more than just a fighter. He’s the reason I don’t have to worry about any of that. Not only that, but he’s also the reason I can fight the best fighter on the planet, I’m very grateful for that.

  But the truth is, Jason’s world—the cameras, the lights, the drama—it’s all a distraction to me. Yet, he thrives in it. Which is a good thing, I can focus on one thing that matters the most, the fight.

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” I say quietly, standing up and stretching, my gloves brushing lightly against my thighs. “But I’m not rushing anything. You know that.”

  Jason gives a half-smirk, shaking his head. “That’s why I’m here, man. You think too much sometimes. Gotta remind you who’s at the top.” He throws a look at Gus, almost as if to say he’s the real brains behind the operation.

  I glance over at Gus, who remains calm, arms crossed, watching Jason with that same quiet patience he’s always had. Gus has been the foundation, the rock, ever since the beginning. He’s never needed the spotlight, never needed to be loud. And that’s why I trust him.

  Jason? He’s necessary in his own way. He’s the reason I’m here, with the contracts, the sponsorships, the high-profile fights. But Gus is the reason I’m still grounded. They both serve their purpose, but I know who I lean on when the pressure’s on.

  “Alright, alright, just go out there and do what you do,” Jason says, waving his hand like he’s brushing off the moment’s seriousness. “Just don’t make it too boring, okay? We want people talking.”

  I give him another nod, but my mind’s already shifted back to the fight. Jason’s words roll off me. The ring is where I speak.

  He slaps my shoulder one last time and steps back toward the door. “We’re gonna own the night, baby! Let’s give them something to talk about.” With that, Jason disappears through the door, already no doubt working the crowd, prepping the media for the show.

  I take a deep breath, my focus returning, centered.

  “Ready?” Gus asks.

  I nod.

  “Then let’s go show them why you’re still number one.”

  As we step out of the tunnel, the sheer size and energy of the crowd hits me like a wave. The Grand Coliseum—the largest arena in the world—is alive with noise, a sea of faces and flashing lights filling the massive space. Fifty thousand people packed into every inch of the colossal dome, their voices blending into a deafening roar that vibrates through the air. The walls stretch high, curving into a transparent roof with a perfect view of the night sky above.

  This place wasn’t just built for fights. It was built for spectacles—where the greatest events in history unfold under the eyes of the world. Every seat is taken, every gaze locked on the ring that glows under the brilliant lights. A digital scoreboard above the ring flickers with the fighters’ names, but I barely glance at it. For me, all that exists is the path to the ring.

  The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, echoing over the crowd. His voice is slick, practiced, and made for this kind of showmanship.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Grand Coliseum!” The crowd roars in response, a frenzy of excitement that grows louder as the announcer continues.

  “Tonight’s main event is a battle between two of the greatest boxer to ever grace this arena!”

  I walk with Gus beside me, Jason a step behind, always keeping an eye on the cameras, making sure the spotlight hits just right. But I’m not thinking about the cameras. I’m thinking about the ring.

  The announcer’s voice rings out again, now shifting to my opponent.

  “In the red corner, standing at 6’1”, with a record of 25 wins and 1 losses—he is the brains in the ring, the strategist, the challenger! Give it up for… Jacob McKenzie!”

  The crowd erupts again as McKenzie steps into view. I see him across the way, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd, his movements measured. McKenzie’s no joke. His record speaks for itself—he’s earned his place here. Known for picking apart his opponents, wearing them down mentally as much as physically.

  But even as the cheers rise for him, there’s an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere as the announcer’s voice rises to introduce me.

  “And in the blue corner!”

  I keep walking, my steps slow, deliberate. The noise around me starts to fade, narrowing down into a single point of focus. The ring. The place where it all falls away.

  “Standing at 6’4”, with a record of 37 wins, 0 losses—he is the world champion in boxing, MMA, kickboxing, and wrestling, the greatest martial artist of our time. He is the immovable object, the unstoppable force—the champion… Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane!”

  The explosion of sound is almost overwhelming. The ground seems to tremble beneath the weight of the crowd’s roar. They know who I am. They’ve seen what I can do. Undefeated. Untouchable. The number one fighter in the world, across every discipline.

  But as the arena vibrates with noise and thousands of eyes are locked on me, I don’t care about any of them. Not the millions watching at home, not the cameras broadcasting my every move. I only care about two.

  I glance up toward the VIP section, where I know she is watching: my wife, Lisa.

  Her eyes are the only ones that matter. She’s the one I fight for. The one who keeps me grounded when everything else tries to pull me away.

  I remember the first time we met—years ago, before the fame, before the titles. Back when I was just a hungry kid trying to make something of myself. She saw past all the noise, saw me for who I really was. Not the fighter, not the persona. Just me.

  In a world where everything feels like a spectacle, she’s the one thing that’s real.

  I know she’s there now, watching me with the same quiet strength that’s been with me through every battle, every fight, every victory. And even though thousands surround me, it’s her gaze that keeps me calm, that keeps me centered.

  I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything. More than the titles, the victories, the accolades. She is my anchor. And as I step into that ring, I know that no matter what happens, she’s always there, waiting for me.

  As the cameras flash and the crowd surges with energy, I lock onto her gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappears.

  But the peace only lasts for a second as the referee steps in, his presence cutting through the moment like a blade. He’s got the air of authority, the kind that’s earned from years of standing between titans like us. He gestures for McKenzie and me to step forward, and the noise of the crowd begins to soften, anticipation thick in the air.

  We stand face to face, the lights bearing down on us, every movement magnified in this charged silence. McKenzie’s sharp eyes are already sizing me up, but I don’t flinch. This is just part of the ritual.

  The referee looks between us, his voice loud and clear as it echoes through the arena.

  “Alright, gentlemen, you know the drill,” he begins, his tone firm. “This is a twelve-round bout for the world championship. No holding, no hitting below the belt. Keep your punches clean and listen to my commands at all times. Protect yourselves at all times. In the event of a knockdown, you go to a neutral corner until I give the signal to continue. Got it?”

  We both nod, the tension between us palpable, though my mind is as calm as still water.

  “Touch gloves and let’s have a good fight,” the referee says, stepping back slightly to let us engage in the last formal gesture before the real battle begins.

  McKenzie hesitates momentarily, then steps forward, his glove raised slightly. His eyes flicker with something—a calculated move, as if he’s testing my reaction, already beginning his mind games.

  “Stone, huh?” McKenzie says, his voice low, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re going to need more than that name to stop me tonight. You ready to be picked apart, piece by piece? This is my time.”

  He’s trying to get under my skin, testing my mental walls. But I don’t respond. I never do. I’ve heard all of this before. Fighters trying to mess with my head, looking for cracks in my calm. There aren’t any.

  I tap his glove lightly, keeping my gaze steady, unaffected. I’ve already won that battle.

  McKenzie’s smirk fades just slightly when he realizes it. Mind games don’t work on me. There’s no point in playing them with someone who doesn’t care about the noise, who doesn’t engage in the theatrics. The fight isn’t about words, not for me.

  “Alright, back to your corners!” the referee calls out, gesturing us away from each other.

  McKenzie holds my gaze for a second longer, then backs off, his smirk fading into focus. He knows now that he’s not going to get inside my head. I walk back to my corner, every step deliberate, the crowd still roaring, but I’m already tuned out. This is what I’ve trained for. This is where I thrive.

  The bell rings, and everything sharpens. The crowd’s roar fades into the background, and the world narrows to the space between McKenzie and me. He’s already moving forward, light on his feet, his hands high, probing with quick jabs, looking for an early read. But I don’t rush. I never do.

  Patience. Control.

  McKenzie’s smart, and he’s banking on that. He’s testing my guard, trying to feel out the rhythm. His jabs snap out, fast and precise. I step just out of range, my gloves up, eyes locked on his movements, watching the way he shifts his weight. He’s always thinking, calculating. His strength isn’t in his power—it’s in how he reads the fight, anticipates what’s coming next.

  But the problem with fighters who overthink is that they give themselves away. I can see it already—he’s trying to set something up, feinting with his left hand, trying to pull my guard out of position. It’s textbook, really. He’s good, but I’ve seen this move before.

  I flick out a quick jab, not to hit him but to measure the distance. He slips to the side, just like I expected, and fires a straight right to my body. I let him think he’s got it, but at the last second, I twist, his glove grazing my ribs as I step back. Too slow.

  He follows up, pressing the attack, throwing a quick combination—jab, hook, straight—but I slip each one, my feet light, my body moving just enough to avoid the impact. No wasted energy.

  I can see the frustration building in his eyes. He wants me to engage, to trade with him. That’s how he breaks his opponents down, lures them into brawling, forces them to make mistakes. But I don’t take the bait. I can feel his rhythm now, the way his body moves, how his mind works. He’s good but trying too hard to force the opening.

  McKenzie comes forward again, this time with a more aggressive approach. He launches a series of quick jabs, snapping them toward my head. I block them, staying calm, focused. I know he’s setting up the right hand, trying to push me into the ropes, making me uncomfortable.

  But the ring is my home. There’s no such thing as uncomfortable here.

  I see his shoulders shift, the telltale sign of the right hand coming. I duck low, slipping to the outside, and in that brief moment, I see the opening I’ve been waiting for. His ribs are exposed for just a second, and that’s all I need.

  I fire off a sharp left hook to his body—clean, precise. It lands with a thud, and I feel the impact ripple through his frame. McKenzie grunts, his guard dropping just slightly, his breath catching for a moment. He’s tough, though. He backs off and resets, trying to shake it off, but I can already see the change.

  The first crack.

  He comes at me again, more cautious now, but his pride is starting to get in the way. He throws a jab at my face, quick and sharp, but I read it before it even leaves his glove. I parry it to the side and return a right cross that lands square on his jaw. His head snaps back, and the crowd roars, but I don’t let it distract me. Stay calm. Stay in control.

  McKenzie steps back, blinking, shaking his head. He’s still in it, but he knows now. He knows this isn’t going to go his way. He keeps moving, circling, trying to regain his rhythm, but it’s already slipping away from him.

  He feints with a jab, then tries to sneak in an uppercut, but I’m already moving, twisting out of range. His glove sails through the air, missing its mark, and I counter with a quick one-two—jab to the head, hook to the body. Both punches land clean, and I feel the thud of impact as my glove connects with his ribs again.

  He’s slowing down.

  McKenzie knows he’s losing control, and that’s when fighters like him start to fall apart. He’s thinking too much now, trying to outsmart me, but in the ring, overthinking is a weakness. I keep my breathing steady, my mind clear, dissecting every movement, every opening.

  He comes forward again, trying to land something big. His punches are faster now, more desperate. He throws a wild hook, aiming for my temple, but I slip inside, my body moving effortlessly past his punch. I’m in range now.

  My right-hand fires—a short, compact hook to his liver. It lands clean, and I feel the air rush out of him. McKenzie gasps, his face tightening in pain, his guard dropping for just a second.

  That’s when I know I’ve won the round.

  I press the attack, keeping my punches precise. A jab snaps his head back, followed by a sharp uppercut that splits his guard. McKenzie stumbles, his feet faltering, but the bell rings before I finish the job.

  We back away, and I return to my corner, my breathing steady, my mind calm. I don’t need to look to know I’ve won the first round. McKenzie walks to his corner, trying to hide the pain, but I can see it in his eyes.

  This fight is mine. It’s only a matter of time.

  I sit on the stool. Gus is in front of me before I’ve even settled in, his hands resting on my shoulders, his face calm but serious. He’s always like this. No hype, no unnecessary words. Just the truth.

  “You won that round,” Gus says, wiping sweat from my brow, “but the fight’s far from over.”

  I nod. I already know it. McKenzie is smart. He’s not going to fold this early.

  Gus leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear him over the crowd’s roar. “You’re controlling the pace, but there’s a hole in your defense when you pull back on those counters. You’re slipping his punches clean, but every time you do, you’re leaving your ribs exposed. McKenzie’s too smart not to notice it. He’s waiting for it, trying to time you.”

  I feel a flicker of annoyance, not at Gus but at myself. He’s right, as always. I’ve felt it too, the slight lag when I reset after dodging. McKenzie hasn’t fully capitalized on it yet, but he will. Gus sees things I don’t in the moment—he’s always been able to.

  I trust him more than anyone. Even more than my wife.

  If Gus told me to fight blind, and he’d direct me, I’d do it without hesitation. And I’d win.

  I take a sip of water, swishing it around before spitting it into the bucket. Gus steps back for a moment, letting me breathe, but his eyes are still locked on me, searching for any sign that I’m not fully listening.

  “He’s going to bait you,” Gus continues. “He’ll let you slip a few more punches, make you think you’ve got him. And the second you relax, he’s going to try and take your ribs apart. You can’t give him that opening, not even for a second.”

  “Stay low,” Gus says, his voice cutting through the noise.

  “Work the body more. Make him uncomfortable. He’s too focused on out-thinking you, so take that away from him. Force him into a position where he can’t think.”

  I let out a slow breath. Every fight, every round, Gus knows what to say, what to adjust. He’s not just my trainer—he’s my guide, my eyes in the ring.

  The bell rings for the next round. Gus slaps my back lightly.

  “You got this, but don’t get comfortable. The second you do, he’ll be on you.”

  I stand, gloves tight, muscles ready, but my mind is still calm. McKenzie is smart, and he’s waiting for me to make a mistake.

  But I’m ready for him now.

  The bell rings, and I rise from the stool, stepping back into the center of the ring. McKenzie’s eyes are sharp, calculating, but I can see it now. Everything Gus said is playing out exactly as he predicted. McKenzie’s waiting, watching for me to slip up, to leave that small opening when I pull back. He’s baiting me, trying to make me feel like I’ve got the upper hand.

  I let him.

  He comes forward, his movements controlled, but there’s a change now. He’s not rushing, not desperate. He’s trying to make me comfortable, luring me in. His jab comes out quickly, testing me, and I slip it, just as I did in the first round. His feet shift, and there it is—a slight opening, just enough to make me want to counter.

  I can feel it—the trap. He’s setting me up. Just like Gus said.

  I feint a punch, giving him what he’s waiting for, pulling back slightly to make it look like I’m leaving my ribs open. His eyes flicker, just for a second, and then he makes his move. He shifts his weight, going for the body, ready to capitalize on what he thinks is my mistake.

  But this time, I’m ready.

  As his glove comes forward, aiming for my ribs, I twist, slipping his punch at the last possible second. He’s overcommitted now, his balance just slightly off. And that’s all I need.

  I step in, close and fast, and fire a sharp left hook to his body, the same spot I hit in the first round. It lands clean, and I feel the impact ripple through him, the air rushing out of his lungs. His guard drops, just for a fraction of a second, but that’s enough.

  I follow up instantly with a right cross, catching him square on the jaw. His head snaps back, and I see it in his eyes—the fight leaving him, his legs buckling under the force of the punch.

  McKenzie stumbles, trying to regain his balance, but it’s too late. I step forward, pressing the attack, another quick one-two combination—jab to the head, hook to the body. He’s reeling now, barely standing, his hands dropping as he tries to cover up.

  I pivot, and with one final shot, I send an uppercut crashing through his guard. It connects clean, and McKenzie’s body goes limp, crumpling to the canvas with a thud.

  The crowd erupts, the sound crashing over me like a wave, but all I hear is the dull thud of my heartbeat. The ref steps in, counting, but I know it’s over. McKenzie isn’t getting back up.

  I stand over him momentarily, my breathing steady, my mind calm. The ref waves his hands over McKenzie, signaling the end of the fight.

  “Knockout!” The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “The winner, and still the world champion—Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane!”

  I raise my glove, acknowledging the victory, but inside, I feel the same as always—calm, focused. This isn’t about glory. It’s about the fight—the discipline.

  McKenzie lies on the mat, and I watch as the medical team rushes in to check on him. He fought well. He did everything right. But Gus was right—he gave me the opening, and I took it.

  I glance toward my corner, and there’s Gus, arms crossed, a small nod of approval on his face. He knew. He always knows.

  The crowd’s roar hasn’t even died down when the announcer strides up to me, mic in hand, his face lit with excitement. The adrenaline of the win is still fresh in the air, the lights blinding and the cameras fixed on me. I know what’s coming. It always does after a fight like this.

  He holds out the mic, his voice booming over the chaos of the arena. “Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane! Another knockout, another win! What’s next for the champ?”

  But before I can even open my mouth, Jason is rushing into the ring, cutting me off like he always does. His suit is sharp, the spotlight bouncing off his sunglasses, even though we’re indoors. He pushes the announcer aside, grabbing the mic like it’s his own.

  “What’s next? What’s next?!” Jason yells, turning to face the crowd, his voice full of hype. “I’ll tell you what’s next—another easy win for the Stone! That’s what!”

  He’s pacing now, arms gesturing wildly, as if he was the one who just knocked McKenzie out. “You all saw it! McKenzie never stood a chance! This fight was over the second we stepped in here. Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane—the best boxer in the world, the best fighter in the world!”

  I stand there, gloves still on, sweat cooling my skin, and I say nothing. I don’t need to. I know Jason’s routine by heart. Trash talk. Hype. Noise. It’s all part of his show. I glance over at Gus, standing by the ropes, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. He knows, too. We’ve been here before, more times than I can count. We don’t care about Jason’s antics.

  The crowd eats it up, though, and Jason keeps going, his voice rising with every word. “But it doesn’t stop here, folks! Oh no, it doesn’t stop. Because tomorrow night, Tobias Kane is back in the cage! That’s right—MMA!”

  The crowd roars even louder, the excitement building as Jason hypes them up even more. “Tomorrow, right here in this arena, Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane will be defending his MMA world title against the number two ranked fighter in the world—Renato ‘The Boa’ Souza!”

  The name causes a stir in the crowd. Renato Souza. Brazilian. Deadly on the ground and vicious on his feet. He’s known for his grappling and submissions—one of the most dangerous fighters in the MMA world.

  But Jason, of course, doesn’t let the tension last long. He’s already grinning, strutting around the ring. “But let’s be real, folks—it’s gonna be easy. We all know what’s going to happen! Renato’s got no chance. Tobias is the STONE, baby! He doesn’t break! He doesn’t lose!”

  Jason keeps rambling on, feeding the crowd, basking in the spotlight as if he’s the one taking the punches. I just stand there, letting him talk, letting him do what he does best. The cameras pan between us, but my face stays calm. I don’t care about the words. Tomorrow, I’ll step into that cage, and like tonight, it won’t be about the noise.

  It’ll be about the fight.

  ***

  I’m lying in bed next to Lisa, my arm draped over her as we both watch the holoscreen that takes up nearly the entire wall of our bedroom. The room itself is everything you’d expect from a place designed for someone with my status. Minimalist, sleek, and filled with things that scream luxury, though none of it is really for me.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows show the city skyline, and while most would be awed by the view, to me, it’s just a reminder of how far removed I’ve become from the real world—the one I grew up in, the one that shaped me. The smart glass automatically adjusts to keep the lighting perfect, blocking out the city’s neon lights below. I barely notice it anymore.

  The bed we’re lying in is massive, custom-made from some expensive material Jason insisted on. The sheets? Some kind of rare cotton blend, soft as air, imported from a country I can’t even remember. Everything in here, from the furniture to the tech, was arranged by Jason. He tells me it’s what’s expected when you’re the number one fighter in the world. But I didn’t ask for any of this.

  It’s a far cry from the life I knew before all this. But I don’t complain. I don’t need the luxury. I don’t want it. The truth is, Jason loves this world more than I ever could. The penthouse, the cars, the expensive wine on the nightstand that costs more than some people make in a year—it’s all for show. For him. For the people watching me.

  But Lisa... she seems to enjoy it. And for her sake, I try. She deserves this. She’s always wanted the finer things, and after everything she’s stood by me through, I’m happy to give it to her, even if it doesn’t mean much to me. So, I go along with it. I don’t love the wine or the extravagant meals or the lifestyle that comes with being on top, but seeing her smile makes it all worth it.

  She shifts slightly, resting her head on my chest, her skin soft against mine, her silk robe brushing lightly as we watch the screen. Jason is front and center in the broadcast, soaking up the spotlight like he was born for it. He’s always had a way with the crowd. He thrives on the attention, on the spectacle of it all. In his sharp suit, sunglasses on, leaning into the microphone, he’s the showman. He knows how to sell a fight, how to build a brand.

  “Tomorrow night, the champ steps into the cage again!” Jason’s voice booms through the speakers, his grin wide, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses. “And let me tell you—this fight? It’s gonna be easy.”

  Jason arranged the press conference in one of those luxury hotels downtown. The kind of place where everything is polished and pristine, logos of sponsors everywhere. It’s his world, not mine. I can’t help but feel like a spectator sometimes, even though my name is what’s being thrown around.

  “Renato Souza? The Boa? Come on,” Jason says, his grin wide as he shakes his head, full of arrogance.

  “Let’s get real. Renato’s from the streets of Brazil. He’s not in the same league as Tobias. Hell, he’s not even on the same planet. Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane is number one for a reason—he’s the best fighter in the world. And everyone else? They’re beneath him. Trash.”

  I stay quiet as Jason continues his rant, the familiar routine playing out. He’s pacing across the stage, gesturing wildly, feeding off the crowd’s energy like fuel.

  “Look, I get it. Renato’s a tough guy in his little corner of the world, but we’re talking about a global champion here. Tobias is untouchable—he’s the champ in boxing, MMA, everything. There’s no comparison.” Jason leans into the mic, his voice dropping just enough to sound menacing.

  “Renato and his people, they think they’re tough because they’ve survived the streets? Well, tomorrow, they’re going to learn something real quick—surviving the streets and surviving Tobias Kane are two very different things.”

  Jason’s words hit hard, not just at Renato but at everything around him—his background, his people, his entire world. It’s the kind of talk Jason thrives on, making it sound like everyone who faces me is unworthy, beneath me.

  Lisa shifts next to me, her fingers tapping lightly on my chest. She’s not happy. I can feel it. She hates this part—the public trash-talking, the way Jason paints me as some kind of arrogant, untouchable figure. I don’t have to look at her to know what she’s thinking.

  “I really don’t like him,” she says quietly, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her frustration.

  “He doesn’t represent you at all.”

  I keep my eyes on the screen, watching Jason continue.

  “I know,” I say, calm as always. “He’s not me. He never was.”

  Lisa lets out a sigh, shifting slightly as Jason keeps going.

  “You’ve got people like Renato, who come from nothing, and they think they can make it by facing someone like Tobias? No chance. This isn’t just about a fight. This is about showing the world why Tobias is on top and everyone else is beneath him.”

  She turns to me, her eyes full of frustration.

  “You don’t talk like that. You’re not like that. The way he makes it sound like everyone else is garbage compared to you... I hate it.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I glance at her, then back at the TV. Jason’s still there, leaning into the mic, working the crowd with his usual bravado. The words don’t bother me. They never do. Jason’s doing what Jason does best.

  “I get it,” I say, my voice steady.

  “But I wouldn’t be here without him. He handles the noise, the trash talk. That’s his job. He lets me focus on what matters.”

  Lisa sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

  “But does he have to talk about Renato’s people like that? Like they’re beneath you? It just... it doesn’t sit right.”

  I run a hand through her hair, calming her down.

  “Jason says what people want to hear. They don’t care about the fight, not really. They care about the story, the hype. That’s what he’s selling.”

  She shakes her head, her voice quiet but firm.

  “I just wish people saw you for who you really are. Not this version of you he’s created.”

  I nod slowly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  “In the ring, that’s where they see me. That’s all that matters.”

  The room falls into silence again, Jason’s voice filling the space as he wraps up his speech, boasting about how tomorrow’s fight is going to be another easy win. Renato Souza, he says, is just another name on the list of people who thought they could take on Tobias Kane.

  But I don’t care about the words. I never have. Tomorrow, it’ll just be me and Renato, and all the noise will disappear.

  The TV scene suddenly shifts, cutting away from the press conference. The bright lights and noise are replaced with a stark “Breaking News” banner flashing across the screen. I can feel Lisa tense next to me, her body shifting as she sits up slightly, her eyes fixed on the screen.

  The broadcaster’s voice is steady, but there’s a seriousness that cuts through the usual chatter.

  “Breaking news tonight—world-renowned surgeon and Premier Society member, Dr. Callan Valor, has been assassinated in his home. Early reports indicate that Dr. Valor was shot and killed earlier this evening. Authorities are currently investigating the motive and suspects, but this marks the end of the life of the best doctor in modern medicine.”

  Lisa sits up further, her voice quiet but sharp.

  “Wait... what?”

  On the screen, they show an image of Dr. Valor, his cold, sharp face staring out, now framed by the heavy weight of those words—assassinated. I stare at the TV, the news settling in, but something about it doesn’t quite click in my mind yet.

  “Tobias? Didn’t you... didn’t you go to him once?”

  I nod slowly, still watching the screen.

  “Yeah, a few years ago. I tore up my shoulder badly in a fight. He fixed it. Barely even talked to me. Just... got the job done.” I remember sitting in his clinic, watching his hands move with precision. Like I was just another body, another problem for him to solve.

  Lisa shakes her head, her brow furrowing.

  “And now he’s... dead? Murdered?”

  I can’t pull my eyes away from the screen.

  “Yeah. Assassinated.” The word feels heavy. I knew he had enemies, like most at the top do, but still, this? It doesn’t sit right. Valor was a man who seemed untouchable, invincible in his own way. And now he’s gone.

  The broadcaster continues, filling in more of the grim details. “Authorities have not yet released any further information about the suspects or motives behind Dr. Valor’s assassination. Dr. Valor was known for his cold, results-driven approach to medicine and was a key figure in the Premier Society, holding the number one position in the medical field. His assassination raises questions about the security and safety of those in the highest echelons of society.”

  “I can’t believe it. You went to him, and now he’s... I mean, who would do something like this?” Lisa looks at me, her face filled with shock and concern.

  I shrug, though my thoughts are spinning. “I don’t know. Valor wasn’t exactly... loved. He was cold. Distant. All business.” I pause, thinking back to the day I met him. “But he was the best. No one could touch him in the medical world. But I guess...”

  “... someone did.” Lisa finishes my thought.

  I nod, still watching as the images flash on the screen—Valor’s home, swarmed by police.

  “It’s strange. I mean, I wasn’t close to him, but... I don’t know. Something about it feels wrong. This is big.”

  “Do you think it’s something to do with the Premier Society? I mean, could this be part of something... bigger?” Lisa squeezes my hand, her voice soft but laced with worry.

  I let out a slow breath, my mind still processing.

  “Maybe. Someone wanted him gone. And whoever it was... they didn’t care that he was the best.”

  The broadcaster’s voice cuts through again, drawing my attention back to the screen.

  “Dr. Valor’s death has sent shockwaves through the medical and global elite. Many are now questioning the stability and safety of the Premier Society, which has long been regarded as untouchable.”

  Lisa’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts.

  “It’s just... so hard to believe. Someone at the top of the world, just... gone.”

  I nod slowly, the weight of it sinking in. Valor wasn’t just another person. He was the best in the world, and now he’s gone. Assassinated. And whoever did it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

  I lie back, my mind still racing. The world is shifting, and even the ones at the top... aren’t safe anymore.

  Lisa sits up further, turning to me with a serious look in her eyes.

  “Tobias, you’re part of the Premier Society too. Do you think you could find out more? Maybe something the public doesn’t know?”

  I hesitate for a moment, glancing down at the Nimbus resting on the nightstand. I’ve never liked using it. To me, it’s just a cold device, a holographic gadget that measures people’s worth in numbers—something I’ve always avoided. I’m not a numbers guy. My worth isn’t something I need to look at on a screen.

  But Lisa’s right. There’s something off about all of this.

  I pick up the Nimbus, the sleek device lighting up instantly in my hand, its smooth surface glowing before the screen projects a soft, bluish hologram in front of me. I tap the screen a few times, navigating through the menu until I reach the option to connect to the one authority that runs this world’s hierarchy—Malleus.

  The moment I connect, the screen shifts, and I’m greeted by Malleus’s faceless voice. He is the AI that controls the entire Premier Society. His tone is neutral, detached, and cold.

  “Tobias Kane. This is the first time you have contacted me directly. How may I assist you?”

  I pause for a moment. It feels strange to be speaking to the entity that controls so much of my life, yet I’ve never bothered to engage with it until now.

  “I wanted to ask about Dr. Valor.”

  Malleus responds without hesitation, his voice devoid of any emotion. Exactly like Dr. Valor.

  “The assassination of Dr. Callan Valor is a tragedy, but it will pass. The position of Number One Doctor in the Premier Society will soon be filled by the second best. The system must continue. The loss of one individual is not critical.”

  The cold, clinical response doesn’t sit right with me. I know Valor wasn’t the warmest person, but to hear Malleus dismiss his death like a minor inconvenience... I expected nothing less, but still, it hits differently.

  Lisa leans in, looking over at the hologram. She raises her voice slightly, trying to ask a question.

  “Does this mean the Premier Society is at risk? Could this happen to others?”

  But Malleus doesn’t even acknowledge her. The voice continues speaking directly to me, as if she doesn’t exist.

  “The system is designed to adapt. Dr. Valor’s death does not compromise the integrity of the Premier Society. The Number Two will soon take his place, and the results will continue to be produced.”

  Lisa frowns, glancing at me, clearly frustrated by how Malleus completely ignores her. I don’t blame her. As a Baker, she isn’t considered high enough in the social hierarchy to warrant Malleus’s attention. That’s how he works—the higher your rank, the more you matter. And to Malleus, she’s not worth the time.

  I take a mental note of it, not that I needed the reminder. The system doesn’t care about people—just results. Lisa, despite being the most important person in my life, barely exists in the eyes of this machine.

  I turn my attention back to Malleus.

  “What about the investigation? Is anything being done to find who did this?”

  Malleus responds in the same flat tone.

  “The investigation is ongoing. However, the focus of the Premier Society is on ensuring continued progress. The removal of Dr. Valor, while significant, does not hinder the society’s purpose. The results will be maintained.”

  I nod slowly, feeling the cold detachment in every word. Results. That’s all it cares about. Not the people, not the lives. Just the function of the system.

  I disconnect the call, the hologram flickering out of existence as the room goes quiet again. Lisa shakes her head, her voice soft.

  “I hate that thing.”

  I set the Nimbus back down, feeling a weight settle in my chest.

  “Me too.”

  Lisa looks at me, her eyes searching mine deeper than usual. There’s a softness there, but also something more—concern. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers,

  “You better be careful, my love.”

  I smile, trying to keep the mood light despite everything. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my voice calm, playful even.

  “No need to worry,” I say, my smile widening,

  “I’m the number one fighter in the world, remember?”

  She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head, but I see the tension ease in her face. I laugh, too, pulling her closer. The weight of the world outside, the news of Valor, Malleus—it all fades for a moment, replaced by the warmth between us.

  For now, this is all that matters.

  ***

  But the peace between us doesn’t last long. Now, I’m standing in the center of the pentagon-shaped cage, the floor beneath me hard and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of home. The lights above are harsh, bright, illuminating the arena with an almost blinding intensity. The cage is taller than the one used in boxing—thick black steel fencing rising around me, trapping me inside. No ropes to lean on, no way out but through the man standing across from me.

  The crowd around the cage is massive, thousands packed into the stands, their voices a thunderous roar that fills every inch of the space. They’re chanting my name, a rhythmic pulse that seems to vibrate through the very floor. But the noise fades as my focus narrows in on the man in front of me—Renato Souza, the number two MMA fighter in the world.

  He’s a beast, and right now, he’s standing in his corner, his body coiled like a predator about to strike. His eyes are locked on mine, but his ears are turned to his trainer, soaking in every word. Anger burns behind those eyes, a fire I’ve seen countless times before in every fighter who thought they could beat me. It’s not fear—it’s something deeper. Determination. He’s come here to win, to take everything, and he believes he can.

  But I won’t let it happen.

  Beside me, Gus steps up, his voice low and calm, cutting through the noise. His hand rests on my shoulder briefly before he starts to speak.

  “Renato likes to close the distance fast,” Gus begins, his tone steady, never rushed.

  “He’s going to try and take you down. Ground and pound is his game, but if he doesn’t get you there, he’s gonna look for a submission—probably a rear-naked choke. His wrestling’s solid, but it’s the jiu-jitsu you need to watch out for.”

  I nod, already knowing what Gus is telling me, but his words anchor me, keep me grounded. Renato’s not here to box. He’s here to drag me into the dirt, to grind me down until there’s nothing left but the pain of submission. It’s his way—wear you out, suffocate you, then choke the fight out of you.

  Gus leans in, his voice dropping lower, his hand still on my shoulder.

  “You know what to do. Keep your distance, work him with strikes. Don’t let him tie you up. The moment he shoots for the takedown, sprawl and keep moving. He’s not going to stop until he’s on top, so don’t give him that chance.”

  I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, steady and calm. Renato still stands across from me, his chest rising and falling as his trainer’s voice drifts into his ear. But his eyes—they haven’t left me. He’s trying to size me up, trying to find something, anything, that says I’m vulnerable.

  But I’m not. Not here. Not in this cage.

  Gus steps back, his last words hanging in the air. “Stay calm, control the pace. This fight is yours if you don’t let him dictate it.”

  I glance back at Gus, giving him a short nod. His words aren’t just advice—they’re the plan. Renato is a beast, but beasts are predictable. They react to fear, to pain. They rely on instincts. But me? I’m not here to react.

  I’m here to control.

  The crowd is electric, and the noise rises to a fever pitch as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers and echoes across the arena.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time!” he roars, drawing out the anticipation. The lights dim slightly, leaving just the fighters and the cage bathed in a harsh spotlight. The crowd is chanting, a mixture of names and cheers filling the air.

  “In the blue corner!” The announcer’s voice takes on a dramatic tone. “Standing at 6′4”, weighing in at 230 pounds, with a record of 45 wins, 0 losses—the number one fighter in the world across multiple disciplines. Undefeated in boxing, MMA, kickboxing, and wrestling! The reigning, defending MMA champion of the world—TOBIAS ‘STONE’ KANE!”

  The crowd erupts, the arena shaking with the force of the applause and cheers. My name echoes off every wall, my record flashing across the holoscreens around the stadium—45-0, no defeats, no one able to stop me. But I don’t focus on the noise. My mind’s already in the cage.

  “And in the red corner!” The announcer’s voice continues, his tone no less dramatic. “Standing at 6′4”, weighing in at 230 pounds, with a flawless record of 20 wins, 0 losses, the dangerous, undefeated submission specialist—one of the most feared fighters in the world. A man who has finished 90% of his opponents by submission—RENATO ‘THE BOA’ SOUZA!”

  Renato’s name is met with almost equal applause. The crowd respects him and knows he’s not just another challenger. His record is no less impressive—20-0—and the way he’s ended most of his fights? Terrifying. He doesn’t just beat people. He finishes them.

  We stand there, locked in the center of the cage, the lights harsh on our faces, while the noise swirls around us like a storm. This is it—two of the best fighters on the planet, both undefeated, both with everything to lose.

  The announcer’s voice fades, the bell rings, and everything narrows down to him and me. The moment the fight starts, Renato moves fast. Too fast for someone my size. He’s light on his feet, bouncing just out of range, his eyes sharp, locked onto mine. Every movement is calculated, each twitch of muscle purposeful.

  He throws the first strike—a lightning-quick inside leg kick, aimed low to test my base. I check it, bringing my shin up to block, the familiar clash of bone on bone sending a jolt through my leg. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to break down my legs early, slow me down.

  I answer with a jab, a feint to draw out his reaction. Renato slips to the side, barely missing the strike, and fires back with a blistering right hook that I barely block. He’s faster than I expected. His footwork is tight, precise—almost perfect. But I’m used to that. I’ve fought fast fighters before. It’s not just about speed.

  He tries to close the distance, and I quickly shoot a low kick of my own, snapping it against his thigh. He grunts but doesn’t back off. Renato is all about pressure, and he’s coming forward again, looking for the clinch.

  But I know what he wants. He wants to take this to the ground, where he can use his jiu-jitsu, grind me down with his grappling. I’m not going to let him.

  I keep moving, keeping the fight at range. I fire off a quick one-two combo, straight punches aimed at his head. Renato slips under the first, then deflects the second with his forearm, coming up with a counter-left hook. I step back just in time, his punch missing my chin by inches.

  His footwork is flawless, and for a second, I realize that in terms of pure ability, he might be better than me. He’s faster, sharper, and his reactions are dialed in. But this fight isn’t about who’s the most gifted. It’s about strategy.

  Renato shoots for the takedown, and I sprawl, dropping my hips low and driving his head down to stop him from getting any leverage. The crowd roars as I defend the takedown, but Renato doesn’t stop. He switches tactics, pulling back and throwing a sharp elbow as we disengage. I duck just in time, his elbow whistling past my ear.

  We separate, both of us breathing a little heavier now, but neither of us willing to give ground. The tension is thick, and I can tell Renato is starting to respect my game. He’s seen how I’ve countered everything he’s thrown so far. But I’ve also seen the same in him.

  We trade again, this time with a series of low kicks and punches, each of us testing the other’s defense. Every move has a counter—when I throw a punch, Renato slips and answers with a kick. When he shoots for another takedown, I sprawl and pivot out of the way. We’re both in sync as if we’re playing out the same fight in our heads. It’s a chess match, and neither of us is willing to make the first mistake.

  Renato throws another high kick, but I catch it on my forearm, blocking it clean. I counter with a straight right hand, but he’s already moving, circling out of range, his agility on full display. He’s fast—faster than I’ve faced in a while—but I’m reading him now. He likes to move in angles, never coming straight at me, always looking to catch me off-balance.

  We engage in the center again, and he tries to clinch. This time, I let him get in close, feeling his arms wrap around my body. I know what’s coming—he’s going to try and drag me down, use his wrestling to force me to the mat. But I twist at the last second, breaking free and landing a sharp knee to his ribs. It lands clean, and I feel the impact, but Renato doesn’t back off. He’s relentless.

  He fires back with a rapid-fire combination of punches, and for a moment, I’m forced to defend, my arms blocking the barrage as he presses forward. His speed is impressive—his punches coming from all angles—but I stay calm, absorbing the strikes, waiting for my moment.

  Then I see it. He leaves himself open—just for a second.

  I throw a quick hook to his body, landing it under his guard. Renato grunts, but responds with a vicious elbow, which I barely block with my forearm. The force of it rocks me back, but I recover, stepping out of range.

  The round is ticking away, and neither of us has gained the upper hand. It’s a back-and-forth exchange, both of us testing the other and adapting with every second.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round.

  We stand there, both of us breathing heavily, both covered in a sheen of sweat. The crowd is on their feet, the noise deafening. But in the cage? It’s quiet. The first round was a draw, a battle of skill and tactics with no clear winner. Renato and I both know this fight is far from over.

  He shoots me a look as we walk back to our corners, and I catch it—those eyes, locked on me, burning with something fierce. But it’s not what I thought. It’s not the determination I’m used to seeing in fighters like him, those who want to prove they belong at the top.

  No, this is something else.

  It’s hate.

  It’s deeper, darker. I’ve seen that look before—fighters who don’t just want to win. They want to hurt you. They want to tear you down, break you apart, and leave nothing behind. This isn’t about the sport for him anymore. It’s personal.

  I feel its weight as I make my way back to my corner. The fight isn’t just a test of skill anymore. It’s war for him.

  I walk back to my corner, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum as I focus on Gus. He’s waiting for me, his arms crossed, eyes locked on mine. Gus can read me better than anyone—he doesn’t need to say much. His gaze says it all.

  “Now you know?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. He’s already figured out what’s going on inside my head.

  I nod, wiping the sweat from my brow.

  “He hates me. I can see it in his eyes.”

  But Gus doesn’t nod. Instead, he gives me a look that says I’ve missed something. Something important.

  “No,” Gus says, shaking his head slightly.

  “That’s not it. You’re not in control.”

  I blink, surprised.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re out there fighting but not controlling the fight. You’ve been reacting to him the whole time. That’s not you. That’s not the Tobias I’ve trained.” Gus leans in closer, his voice low but firm, cutting through the noise like a blade.

  His words hit harder than any punch Renato could land. He’s right. I’ve been moving, countering, trading blows—but I haven’t been leading the fight. I’ve been letting Renato dictate the pace.

  Gus doesn’t stop. He sees through the cracks.

  “Listen, you’ve trained your whole life for this. You’ve worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. But you’re still fighting like you have something to prove. Like you’re trying to show that you belong at the top. That’s not where your focus should be.”

  I feel the weight of his words settling in, sinking deep.

  “You’re not fighting him. You’re fighting yourself out there. Trying to prove that you’re the best but forgetting that the best is never enough.” Gus’s eyes narrow.

  “You worked for this moment to stand toe-to-toe with one of the greatest fighters in the world. This isn’t about beating him. It’s about showing yourself that there’s more to learn, that you can still get better. Every fight is a lesson.”

  I take a deep breath, the tension easing slightly as his words sink in.

  “Your skills got you here,” Gus continues, his voice steady. “But your wisdom will get you through. You think this is about Renato? It’s not. He’s just another step. The goal isn’t to win this fight. The goal is to keep growing. To always be better.”

  I nod again, more slowly this time, feeling the clarity return. I’ve trained for this, not just to win, but to face the greatest challenge. To push myself beyond what I thought I was capable of.

  Gus steps back, his eyes still locked on mine.

  “Remember why you are here. Now get out there and take control of this fight. Be wise. Be patient.”

  I exhale, feeling my mind settle. This fight isn’t just a battle. It’s a test. Not of my skills, but of my ability to learn, adapt, and improve. Gus knows it. And now, so do I.

  The bell rang, and the second round begins. Renato doesn’t waste a second. Before I can even settle into my stance, he’s already coming at me, moving faster than before. His footwork is aggressive, his eyes locked onto mine. The moment I blink, he lunges forward with terrifying speed, driving his shoulder into my midsection with a tightly gripped double-leg takedown.

  I hit the mat hard, the cold canvas slamming against my back, and the breath shoots from my lungs. Before I can react, Renato’s all over me, his bodyweight pressing down, his grip like iron around my waist. This is where he’s dangerous—the ground game. He’s a master down here, and I know it. This is his world, and right now, he’s in control.

  His positioning is flawless, already working to pass my guard, his hands pushing on my hips, his legs shifting to find an opening. I struggle to regain control, but he’s faster, more technical than most fighters I’ve faced on the ground. This is what he does. He takes fighters down and makes them suffer.

  For a second, doubt flashes through my mind. Is this it? Will I finally lose?

  But then, in the coldest part of my mind, a simple answer rises up, steady and clear.

  Nah.

  I’ve been here before. I’ve trained for this. I’m not out yet.

  I feel Renato trying to pass into side control, his weight shifting to my left, and I seize the moment. He’s overcommitted—too eager to dominate me on the ground. I dig my feet into the mat, bridging up hard, using his momentum against him. In one swift motion, I trap his arm, shift my hips, and pull him into a sweep.

  It happens in a split second. One move that turns everything around. I roll him over, and suddenly I’m on top, reversing the position, catching him off guard.

  Now I’m in his guard, but the tables have turned.

  I don’t give him time to react. I rain down punches—sharp, brutal strikes that crack against his face and body. This is supposed to be his world—the ground game, the thing he’s best at. But right now, I’m beating him at his own game. My fists hammer down, and I can feel the force of every impact as I press him deeper into the canvas.

  Renato tries to defend, blocking and rolling, but the punches keep coming. Blood starts to flow from his nose, his face already swollen from the strikes. The ground and pound is relentless, and for all his skill, he’s trapped. But through the haze of blood and sweat, I see his eyes.

  He’s still fighting.

  Even as I hammer him, even as his body breaks under the assault, he refuses to give up. His eyes are locked onto mine, filled with fury and determination. He’s beaten, and he knows it, but there’s no surrender in him. No fear. Just rage. He’s bleeding, his face swollen beyond recognition, but he won’t stop.

  Any second now, the referee is going to step in and stop the fight. I can feel it. I can hear the crowd, their roars growing louder with every punch I land. They know it’s over. Everyone does.

  Everyone but Renato.

  I keep punching, but his eyes never change. He’s still there, still fighting, refusing to let go. His body may be giving up, but his spirit is unbroken. He won’t quit. And for a moment, I wonder what it must feel like to have that kind of hate—so deep it pushes you beyond your limits.

  The referee finally steps in, pulling me off Renato and waving his arms to signal the end. The crowd explodes, the sound like a tidal wave crashing down around us. It’s done. I’ve won.

  I stand up, still catching my breath, my lungs heaving as I try to steady myself. My body feels the weight of every second of that fight, every hit, every takedown, but my mind is already clear. I look down at Renato, who’s still lying on the mat, his face swollen and bloodied, but somehow his eyes—those enraged eyes—are still locked on me. There’s no surrender in them, even now.

  I stare at him for a moment, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—respect. This man pushed me, made me dig deeper than I thought I needed to. He didn’t just fight me; he challenged me. He’s the reason I train as hard as I do, the reason I push myself beyond the limits, to face fighters like him. He’s one of the best and beating him means something.

  I take a deep breath, then do something I haven’t done in years. I bow. Low. Right there, in the center of the cage.

  For a moment, through the anger in his eyes, I see confusion flash across Renato’s face. He wasn’t expecting that. No one was. I haven’t bowed to another fighter in... I don’t even know how long. But he deserves it. He earned it.

  Before either of us can say anything, the referee grabs my wrist and lifts it into the air, declaring me the victor. The crowd erupts again, their chants and cheers filling the arena, their energy surging through the space like a storm. Cameras flash, and the announcer’s voice echoes around us, barely audible over the noise.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Gus making his way into the ring, his face calm but proud. Renato’s coach rushes in too, leaning over his fighter, checking on him. There’s chaos around us now, but I’m still focused on Renato, the silent understanding between us.

  Then, before I can gather my thoughts, I hear Jason’s voice. He’s already running toward me, a broad grin on his face, the spotlight chasing him. He’s basking in the moment, and as soon as he reaches me, he plants himself by my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, his energy in stark contrast to my own.

  “That’s my champ!” Jason yells, loud enough to compete with the crowd. He’s smiling, waving to the cameras, already positioning himself for the interviews and the headlines.

  “AND STILL, THE WORLD CHAMPION, TOBIAS ‘STONE’ KANE!” The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, the crowd erupts in a frenzy, chanting my name so loud it shakes the cage. The flashes of cameras light up the arena as the announcer steps forward, holding out the microphone, a broad smile on his face. He looks at me, but before I can even reach for the mic, Jason grabs it, his hand already poised to take over, like clockwork.

  Jason lifts the mic to his mouth, his voice cutting through the cheers like a knife.

  “THAT’S RIGHT! The champ is STILL on top!” he shouts, pacing back and forth, playing to the crowd like it’s his own personal stage.

  “And let’s get one thing straight—everyone else is beneath Tobias! They’re not the best because they’re not good enough! They think they can beat him? They’re dreaming! Nobody can touch Tobias ‘Stone’ Kane because they will NEVER be on his level!”

  The crowd roars in approval, eating up every word, and Jason, always the showman, keeps pouring it on.

  “Who’s next, huh? Who dares to even think they can stand in this cage with the champ? They’re all chasing him, but they’re never gonna catch him! Because they’re not worthy! They can try all they want, but only the best stays at the top, and right now, there’s only ONE who’s the best, and that’s TOBIAS ‘STONE’ KANE!”

  While Jason keeps bantering, feeding off the crowd, Gus steps up next to me. I glance at him, and he meets my eyes with that quiet, knowing look. Without saying a word, we both feel the absurdity of the moment.

  “How long do you think he’s gonna keep going?” I mutter, smirking slightly.

  Gus lets out a low chuckle, his arms crossed as he watches Jason prance around.

  “As long as there’s a crowd. You know how he is.”

  I shake my head, glancing back at Jason, who’s now talking about how the next contender had better think twice before stepping into the cage with me.

  “He could make beating anyone sound like winning a world war.”

  Gus raises an eyebrow, his voice quiet and calm.

  “To him, it is.”

  We share a knowing look before the topic shifts.

  “Renato gave me hell out there,” I say, my voice low, out of earshot from Jason’s over-the-top banter.

  “The guy’s got heart, skill... he didn’t quit, even when he was done.”

  Gus nods slowly, his expression serious for a moment.

  “He pushed you. Hard. And you respected him for it. That’s what matters.” He pauses, his eyes glancing over at Renato’s corner where the medical team is still checking him.

  “He’s one of the toughest I’ve seen in a long time. But the fight’s over. You won because you stayed smart. You controlled it in the end.”

  I nod in agreement, feeling the weight of the fight still lingering in my muscles, but also a deep respect for Renato.

  “He’s got a future ahead of him. That kind of determination... it’s rare. He’s not like Jason says.”

  Gus smirks, glancing at Jason again, who’s now waving at the crowd and boasting about how the next contender is going to be a breeze.

  “Yeah, well, Jason’s got a talent for... stretching the truth.”

  We share a brief laugh, letting the noise and chaos swirl around us while Jason continues his performance. Through all of it, Gus and I remain grounded in the moment, knowing the real battle was in the cage, not on the mic. The respect was earned between fighters, not through the words spilling from Jason’s mouth.

  ***

  We’ve been in Switzerland for a few days now, and it feels like a world away from the chaos of the cage. Jason, for all his antics, knew we needed a break, so he booked us a week in this small, mountainous village, tucked away in the Swiss Alps. The air is crisp and clean, the kind that makes every breath feel like it’s refreshing your soul. Snow-capped peaks rise up around us, towering above the quiet, chill village that sits nestled in the valley, like something out of a postcard.

  The place feels peaceful, untouched by the noise of the world. Just simple cottages, narrow cobblestone streets, and the occasional cowbell ringing in the distance. Lisa loves it here—her eyes light up every time she looks out over the mountains, and honestly? So do I.

  We’re sitting at a small table in an even smaller restaurant, the kind where the locals gather, not tourists. Wooden beams line the ceiling, and the warmth of the fire crackles in the hearth, giving the place a cozy glow. The smell of the food is rich and earthy, like it’s been cooking for hours.

  We’re eating R?sti, a classic Swiss dish—crispy fried potatoes, with melted Gruyère cheese, served alongside some sliced veal in a creamy mushroom sauce. It’s hearty, simple, but perfect for the cold air outside. Lisa takes a bite, her eyes closing in contentment as she savors the food, then she looks at me with that smile of hers, the one that makes everything else disappear.

  “You know,” she says, her voice soft, “if we ever retire, I wouldn’t mind a place like this. Simple, quiet. Just... us.”

  I smile back, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

  “Yeah? You sure you wouldn’t miss the big city? The lights? The fancy stuff Jason’s always pushing on us?”

  She laughs, shaking her head.

  “Not at all. This? This is all I need.” Her eyes sparkle as she looks around the restaurant.

  “Good food, good company... and the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.”

  I glance out the window, where the peaks rise up in the distance, their white snowcaps almost glowing under the late afternoon sun. The village is peaceful, so different from the noise and spotlight of our usual lives.

  “I could get used to this,” I admit, turning back to her. “The quiet. No pressure. Just... life.”

  Lisa leans in, her voice warm and teasing.

  “I bet you’re already thinking about your next fight.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “Not this time.” I take a sip of the local wine, letting the warmth spread through me.

  “Right now? I’m just thinking about you. About us. Maybe we can open a farm with Arthur.”

  She smiles again, and for a moment, the world outside feels like it’s miles away. We talk about the village, the people we’ve met, sharing stories and laughter like we haven’t had in a while. It feels easy here, like the mountains are guarding us from everything beyond this valley. No fights, no pressure, no Jason spinning the next big promotion. Just the two of us, enjoying the simplicity of life.

  We finish the meal, but neither of us is in a hurry to leave. The fire crackles in the background, the warmth filling the room as we sit back, content. Outside, the snow is beginning to fall lightly, dusting the rooftops of the village with a fresh layer of white.

  After this, the plan was to hike the mountains that surrounded us, taking in the fresh air and breathtaking views. But before that, I excuse myself to the bathroom, leaving Lisa smiling over the last sips of wine.

  The bathroom is small and simple, just like the rest of the place. I splash cold water on my face, feeling refreshed, letting the quiet settle around me. As I dry my hands, I hear a faint thud from outside, followed by a few more muffled noises. For a moment, my mind flickers to the kitchen—probably just the staff prepping or dropping something. It’s a small village restaurant, after all.

  But when I step back out into the dining area, the air feels different. Too quiet. The moment I round the corner, everything changes.

  The scene hits me like a punch to the gut.

  Blood. Everywhere.

  The warm, cozy atmosphere of the restaurant has been replaced by something straight out of a nightmare. Bodies litter the floor, their twisted, unnatural positions a stark contrast to the calm, serene vibe from just moments ago. Blood pools beneath the tables, streaked across the walls, dripping from the edges of chairs. Some of the bodies are slumped over the tables, their meals left unfinished, while others are sprawled out on the floor, faces frozen in shock and horror.

  The rich smell of the R?sti we’d been eating is now mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The soft crackle of the fireplace has been replaced by a chilling silence, broken only by the occasional drip of blood hitting the floor.

  And in the center of it all, six figures, standing among the carnage like they’re part of it.

  Each of them wears black hoodies, their faces hidden behind white, owl-shaped helmets, the blank, expressionless masks reflecting the dim light. They’re holding automatic rifles, the barrels still smoking faintly. The floor beneath them is slick with blood, the restaurant’s warmth now consumed by the cold, violent scene they’ve created.

  And then I see her..

  Lisa is still sitting at our table, frozen in place, her body tense with fear, her eyes wide and staring straight ahead. She’s pale, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggles to keep her breathing under control. The glass of wine in front of her sits untouched, her hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles are white.

  She’s surrounded by them. The six maniacs in their black hoodies and owl masks, rifles clutched tight. Their presence is suffocating, and I can see it in her—she’s terrified, trying to stay still, to not provoke them. One wrong move, and she knows what could happen.

  One of them, the one I’m assuming is their leader, takes notice of me. His body shifts slightly, and with a casual motion, he slings his rifle back over his shoulder, like he’s not in any rush. He turns to face me, his owl mask’s empty eyes fixed on mine.

  “Hello there, champ!” His voice is strange—too high-pitched, almost mechanical. A voice modulator, probably. It’s unnatural, unsettling.

  “Sorry to break up your holiday!” he adds, his tone mockingly cheerful, like this is some kind of sick joke.

  I stay still, every muscle in my body tensed, watching his every move. I see the barrel of his rifle swing slightly as he gestures toward Lisa, his voice dropping an octave.

  “But you are under hostage. One move, and I’ll put a bullet through your darling’s head.”

  He points the barrel directly at Lisa’s head. I watch as her eyes squeeze shut, her body trembling, shoulders shaking. She’s holding it together, but barely. The fear radiating off her is enough to choke the air in the room.

  I can feel my fists clenching at my sides, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not yet.

  Not because I fear them. I don’t.

  It’s because if I move now, if I do anything... Lisa will die. There’s no question in my mind. This guy, this leader, isn’t bluffing. He’s got the rifle aimed directly at her head, his finger resting casually on the trigger.

  And Lisa knows it too.

  I force myself to stay calm, to not let the rage bubbling inside me take over. I can take them. I know I can. But right now, one wrong move, and Lisa’s gone. And that’s a risk I can’t afford to take.

  I lock eyes with the leader, his mask tilting slightly as if he’s amused by the situation, waiting for me to react, waiting to see if I’ll crack under the pressure.

  But I won’t. Not yet. I need to be patient.

  “Good boy,” the leader says, still grinning beneath the modulated voice. He taps the side of his rifle, his body language casual, like he’s toying with me.

  “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Just stay still, champ. Let’s have a nice little chat, and maybe your girl here gets to keep breathing.”

  “What do you want?” I ask, my voice calm, steady. I’m in the moment, my mind razor sharp. I don’t fear them. I’m ready—ready to strike when the opening comes, when there’s a split second where they can’t hurt Lisa. That’s all I need. One moment.

  The leader tilts his head slightly, the modulated voice coming out in that strange, high-pitched tone.

  “To give you your consequences.”

  He takes a step closer, the rifle slung casually over his shoulder, but the threat is still clear. He gestures toward me with it, his movements slow, deliberate.

  “How does it feel, huh? Sitting up there? Looking down on everyone beneath you, like they’re trash?” His tone is mocking, dripping with venom.

  He walks toward me, his footsteps light, casual, like this is just another day for him. He gestures with the barrel of the rifle for me to kneel. I do. Not because I have to, but because right now, I need to play this smart. Lisa’s life hangs in the balance. I can’t make a move—not yet.

  He sneers behind that owl mask, looking down at me.

  “Talking your shit,” he continues, his voice rising slightly. “Thinking you’re the top of the world. Now look at you—you’re beneath me.”

  It’s ironic, really. Even on my knees, I’m still taller than him. But with the rifle in his hands? Height doesn’t matter. Power does. And right now, he’s got the advantage.

  “What do you want?” I ask again, my voice low but firm. He’s close now—too close. I can see a glimpse of his eyes through the slits in his mask. They’re filled with rage, but there’s something else there too. Desperation. Anger that’s been festering for too long.

  He leans in, his breath audible through the modulator.

  “I want you to feel what we, the lower society, feel.”

  His voice drops even lower, a harsh whisper.

  “Suffering.”

  The word hangs in the air, heavy with malice, but I don’t move. I can’t. I assess the situation, my mind racing, but every option leads back to one thing—Lisa.

  There are six of them, all armed. Even if I could take the leader down, I know the others wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Two of them are standing just behind Lisa, their rifles trained on her, fingers resting lightly on the triggers. One wrong move—just one—and they’d fire.

  I feel the tension in my muscles, the instinct to act, to strike, gnawing at me. I’ve been here before, staring down worse odds. But this? This is different. My every move has to be perfect, calculated. If I miss a beat, if I make a single mistake, Lisa dies.

  I scan the room again, looking for any opening, any weakness. But they’re too close. No time, no angle. There’s no way to take them out without Lisa being caught in the crossfire. Every instinct I have screams to fight, but the logic in my head tells me one thing:

  I’m trapped.

  I glance at Lisa. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide with fear. She’s holding her breath, sitting perfectly still, trying not to provoke them. She seemingly tried to scream, but she knows she can’t. I have to protect her.

  A thud, barely audible, and suddenly a white-hot pain rips through my back, coursing through every nerve. My body seizes up, my muscles locking as a jolt of high-voltage electricity tears through me.

  It wasn’t the leader.

  It came from behind. One of the others—a shadow I didn’t see—struck me with the taser while my focus was on the leader. I barely have time to register what’s happening before the pain consumes me, dragging me down.

  But then, through the haze of electricity frying my nerves, I feel another blow—sharp and brutal—smashing into the back of my skull. The butt of a rifle, swung with deadly precision. Pain explodes in my head, white-hot and searing, and I feel my vision blur. I’ve taken worse hits before, I’ve endured worse suffering, but this time... this time it’s different.

  I force myself to stay awake, to keep fighting through the pain. I’ve survived hell before—I can survive this. But just as I try to lift my head, another crushing strike lands on the same spot at the back of my skull, harder than before. The world tilts, spinning, and I feel consciousness slipping through my fingers like sand.

  I fight—fight with everything—to keep it bright. I struggle to stay conscious, to push through the burning agony tearing through my body, but it’s like trying to swim against a current that’s too strong. My muscles betray me, locking up, seizing. The best fighter in the world, and I can’t even move. All the years of training, all the hard work, the sweat, the sacrifices... none of it matters now. My body—the same body I’ve built for war—fails me the moment I need it most.

  But through the haze of pain, my eyes lock onto Lisa. She’s trembling, barely holding herself together, but she’s still watching me. She hasn’t given up. I can see it—the terror in her eyes, the fear that any second now... it could all be over. For her. For us.

  And I can’t do anything.

  I try to push through, to hold on, but my body refuses to respond. The pain is too much, the electricity too strong, ripping through every fiber of me like I’m nothing. I’m furious—furious that I’ve been reduced to this, kneeling, powerless. Furious that my body, this weapon I’ve crafted, is failing her—failing us—when she needs me most.

  She needs me. And I’m not there. I can’t move.

  I want to scream, to shout, to do something—anything—but my voice is stuck in my throat, swallowed by the pain. I see her eyes, wide with fear, pleading for me to do something. I’m her last hope.

  I’m supposed to protect her.

  I try to hold on. I try to fight it, to stay awake, but the darkness pulls at me, relentless. It’s dragging me down, and I can feel it—my vision narrowing, the world slipping further and further away, like I’m sinking into an abyss I can’t climb out of.

  I can’t give in. Not now. I force my thoughts to stay sharp, to remind myself of everything I’ve endured before. I’ve survived worse, dammit. I’ve fought through hell and come out the other side. I can’t let this be the end. I won’t.

  But then, just as I think I’m regaining a sliver of control, I feel another vicious crack against the back of my head. The third blow hits like a sledgehammer, and this time, I know it’s over. The last thread of consciousness slips, the world collapsing in on itself.

  Before the dark takes me, I promise her—I swear to myself, to her, to everything I am:

  I will save us.

  To be continued...