Chase climbed the cage, pounding his chest with both fists, a cocky smile plastered across his face.
Blood streaked across his brow from the cut in round one, sweat dripping down his shoulders, but he looked every bit the showman he wanted to be.
He pointed out into the crowd, mouthing sothing to the fans as the arena roared back in a mix of cheers and boos.
So loved the spectacle, others jeered at the arrogance, but all eyes were on him.
Jim Logan reacted from comntary. "There it is, that’s classic Chase Dunham. He wants the spotlight, he wants every cara on him, and he just delivered a massive TKO win to back it up."
Damian Kormier laughed. "Man, he’s cocky, but you can’t deny it. That was a hell of a finish. He went from getting walked down to flipping the script in one exchange."
Nix added with his usual steady tone. "And now he’s guaranteed his place. He’s the middleweight Supre Fighter of this season. Love him or hate him, tonight he got it done."
Chase dropped back down into the cage, his grin still wide, pacing as he pointed to himself.
Across the Octagon, José sat on a stool with his corner fanning him and holding an ice pack to his jaw.
He was disappointed, but not broken, he nodded in acknowledgent, showing no bitterness toward the result.
At cage-side, Duece Buffer prepared with the official announcent, the scorecards already tucked away.
Chase was still beating his chest on the cage wall when two of his cornern tugged at his ankle, pulling him down.
The referee waved him over impatiently, motioning for both fighters to return to the center.
José pushed himself up from the stool, walking stiffly but with dignity, his corner supporting him until he waved them off.
He stood tall, bruised and swollen, but refusing to show weakness as he made his way back to the ref’s side.
The referee stepped between them, taking Chase’s right wrist in one hand and José’s left in the other.
The cage door swung open, and Duece Buffer entered, his voice already booming before the mic reached his lips.
"Ladies and gentlen, referee Mark Collins has called a stop to this contest at three minutes and forty-one seconds of Round 2. Declaring the winner by TKO—"
He turned toward Chase, pointing directly at him as the referee lifted Chase’s arm high.
"—and the Supre Fighter,
CHASE!!!!!
... DUNHAM!!!"
The arena erupted, half in cheers, half in boos, the noise deafening as Chase grinned wide, pulling free to raise both arms himself.
José exhaled, shaking his head once, before giving a small nod and turning back to his corner.
The referee released Chase’s wrist, and before the noise of the crowd died down, Jim Logan stepped into the cage with a microphone in hand.
He moved straight toward Chase, who was still pacing with a grin, pointing at himself and mouthing words at the crowd.
Jim raised the mic. "Chase, congratulations on a huge TKO victory. You’re now the Supre Fighter middleweight champion. Tell us, how do you feel after a performance like that, and what’s the goal moving forward?"
Chase wiped the sweat from his face with his glove, leaned in close to the mic, and smirked. "How do I feel? I feel like the future of this division. Everyone doubted , said I was just flash, just hype. But tonight, I proved I’m the real deal. This is my ti."
He paused, pacing again, before snapping his gaze toward the cara. His grin twisted into sothing sharper.
"And as for what’s next? I’m coming for the whole middleweight division. I don’t care who’s at the top right now. Damon Cross? Everyone calls you the face of the UFA. Everyone acts like you’re untouchable. Guess what? I’m the guy that’s gonna flip this division upside down. I’ll end your little streak, take everything you’ve got, and make sure nobody rembers your na once I’m done. This is my era now."
The crowd erupted, boos mixed with scattered cheers, the heat instantly electric.
Jim’s eyebrows shot up, caught off guard by the direct callout. "Strong words for the reigning champion—"
Chase cut him off, shouting into the mic again. "Not strong words. Facts. Damon can’t hide forever. I’m right here. And I promise you, I’ll be the one to send him packing."
The arena shook with noise as Chase slamd the mic back into Jim’s chest, raising both arms as his corner flooded the cage to celebrate.
In the back, Damon sat up from his chair. Only one fight remained before his turn under the lights.
He stretched his shoulders, rolled his neck, then stepped toward the mats to shake off the nerves with a few light drills.
Joey, who had arrived later than expected, slipped on a pair of pads and followed him. "Alright," he said, holding them out. "Let’s get moving."
Damon threw a slow jab, then a right hand, settling into rhythm. Joey smirked as he caught them cleanly. "So what’d you think about that callout?"
Damon cracked a faint grin, slipping a hook around the pad before weaving under. "I an, co on. Did you see the guy? I would maul him. He’s got a better chance of being a gatekeeper than a champion. And trust , after this match, Ivan’s got that gatekeeper job waiting for him."
Joey shook his head with a laugh, throwing the pads higher for Damon to slip under. "Bro, what happened to you? You used to be humble." His tone was light, teasing.
Damon chuckled, snapping a jab-cross and slipping again. "Yeah, maybe. But look, I’ve earned this. I’ve been through the grind, I’ve beaten everyone they put in front of , I’ve got two belts sitting at ho. I’m not just so kid chasing a dream anymore. I’m him. And I’m done pretending otherwise."
Joey raised his brows, half amused, half impressed.
Damon’s voice carried more weight now. It wasn’t arrogance for the sake of arrogance, it was the edge of a man who had stepped fully into the role everyone expected him to play. Confident. Loud. Unapologetically proud.
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