The night had finally arrived.
After all the noise, all the press, all the talk, after the switch from Ivan to Shane, there was only one thing left to do.
Fight.
Damon stood at the tunnel entrance with his team, gloves already on, wrapped hands resting at his sides.
The buzz of the crowd poured in through the walls, muffled but constant, like the hum of a storm waiting to break. His face was calm. His eyes were steady.
But right now, it wasn't his turn.
The lights shifted.
Music blasted from the speakers. There was no overproduced performance as raw volume and tempo, rage in rhythm.
A remix of punk and street-style hip-hop ripped through the arena, and the crowd immediately reacted.
Some booed loud. Others cheered louder.
Shane Brickland emerged through the curtain, bouncing on his feet, wearing his usual no-frills fight gear, black shorts, old wrestling shoes, and a blank stare like he was walking into a bar fight.
