Soone in the crowd stood and was handed the mic. The room quieted, all eyes turning as the man spoke.
"I’ve got a question for Ivan Novak. Ivan, we’ve seen you do so great things, but a few months ago you said that Damon hasn’t faced any notable fighters, that he had it easy, and that’s the reason he’s sitting at a thirty-win undefeated record. Do you still stand by that?"
Ivan leaned forward, nodding as he picked up his mic. "Yeah. I stand by it. Who has he beaten that’s so great? Who? None of the people on his record are big nas. And when I started to co up, instead of facing , he ran off to the light heavyweight division."
The crowd reacted, half cheering, half booing. Ivan smirked, satisfied with the stir, but before he could continue Damon leaned toward his mic, cutting in.
"There’s a lot of delusion in your head," Damon said, his tone sharp but asured. "You’re saying I haven’t beaten anyone notable? Have you? Who have you beaten that I haven’t? Or better yet, who have you beaten that wasn’t already beaten by soone I beat? Answer that."
The crowd roared, the noise surging as Damon pressed on, his eyes locked on Ivan.
"And this idea that I ran from you?" Damon shook his head. "I moved up to fight better competition, bigger n, harder fights. That’s not running, that’s stepping up. And let’s not rewrite history here. I gave you your first title shot. Handed it to you on a golden platter. You made excuses. You passed. The only reason your na was even in the conversation for was because of . You’re sitting at the top now because I cleaned the division out before you got here."
The room erupted again, chants echoing from both sides of the fanbase, reporters scrambling to keep pace with the storm of words. Ivan leaned back, jaw tight, gripping his mic as if ready to fire back, while Damon sat calmly, his smirk returning as if to say he had already won this round.
Damon leaned forward, his stare locked on Ivan. "Am I wrong? Hey Ivan, am I wrong? Look at , am I wrong?"
The crowd stirred, caras flashing as Damon pressed the mont.
"You and , we were on the sa show. The Supre Fighter. But guess who won? Guess who got the contract? You couldn’t even reach the finals." Damon’s voice cut sharp, leaving no space for Ivan to respond. "The only way you’ve managed to stay relevant is by ntioning my na. And the sa goes for your little pet over there." Damon pointed down the table at Chase.
Chase imdiately leaned into his mic. "Don’t—"
But Damon cut him off without hesitation. "Shut it, kid. Grown-ups are talking."
The crowd exploded, laughter and cheers echoing as the caras zood in on Chase’s reddening face.
It was the sa line Chase had used on Max earlier, but coming from Damon, it carried weight.
Damon was three years younger than Chase, twenty-four to Chase’s twenty-seven, but Damon was the double champ, the undefeated star, everything Chase was chasing. The sting was undeniable.
Damon didn’t let up. He turned his attention back to Ivan, his tone colder now. "Ivan, I made you relevant. Who do you think you are? Tell , what’s special about you? What do you bring to the cage that anyone should care about? Why should they watch you?"
The room was buzzing, tension crackling as Damon leaned even closer to his mic, his final words hitting like a hamr. "Tomorrow, I’ll send you packing back to Russia. After I beat you, you won’t even sniff this championship again. Because I’m not just going to beat you, I’m going to dominate you."
The ballroom erupted, half the fans on their feet cheering, the other half booing with equal intensity.
Reporters scrambled, their pens flying, already knowing Damon’s words would be plastered across headlines before the night was over.
Ivan’s jaw tightened as he finally reached for his mic, his reply hanging heavy in the air.
Ronan stepped back up to the podium, his grin returning as he raised a hand to settle the crowd.
The chants, cheers, and boos quieted just enough for his voice to cut through.
"Alright, that’s enough for today," he said, the smirk never leaving his face. "We’ve heard from the finalists, we’ve heard from the contenders, and we’ve heard from the two n at the very top. Tomorrow night, all the talk ends."
The fans roared again, the noise surging through the ballroom. Ronan pointed toward the long table, his voice booming over the chaos.
"Max Taylor versus Ronny McGregor. José Alvarez versus Chase Dunham. And in the main event, champion versus champion. Damon Cross versus Ivan Novak. Tomorrow night, we find out who the best in the world really is."
The room shook as the fighters stood one by one, security already stepping forward to guide them off the stage.
Caras flashed in rapid bursts, capturing every glare and smirk as the press conference ca to an end.
Damon stood, adjusting his suit jacket and lifting the championship onto his shoulder.
His eyes swept toward Ivan, who sat stiff in his chair, his expression tight with frustration. Damon’s calm smirk only made it sting more.
As Damon turned to step off the stage, Ronan leaned into the mic, his grin widening. "Careful, Damon, don’t crease that suit before the fight tomorrow," he joked, drawing laughter from the crowd.
Damon chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, the gold glinting under the stage lights while Ivan stayed rooted in his seat, jaw clenched.
Ivan finally stood, his chair scraping back against the stage floor.
He grabbed his interim belt from the table and threw it over his shoulder, his jaw set like stone.
The crowd erupted again, but this ti, the noise was lopsided.
"Ronin! Ronin! Ronin!"
The chants rolled through the ballroom in waves, drowning out everything else.
Fans on Damon’s side were relentless, shouting his na over and over, their voices filling the space with a roar that seed to shake the walls.
Ivan stood there, belt on his shoulder, staring down toward the stage steps where Damon had just disappeared.
He looked furious, the chants cutting into him louder with every second.
Caras caught it all, the smirk on Damon’s face as he left, the clenched jaw of Ivan as he stood alone in the noise.
Reviews
All reviews (0)