NOVPUBInside the UFA headquarters, the conference room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the overhead lights.
A large whiteboard stood at the front, filled with scrawled names, potential matchups, and scattered notes in black marker.
The words "The Supreme Fighter - Season 3" were written across the top in bold.
A small group of executives and producers sat around a long polished table.
Some leaned back, sipping coffee. Others were flipping through printed profiles and past performance sheets.
At the head of the table, the lead producer, an older man in a sharp suit with graying temples, stood with his hand under his chin.
"Alright," he said finally. "We're two years out from the next Supreme Fighter. We need a lineup that's going to pull eyes. Not just talent. We need personalities. Conflict. Someone the fans will follow all season, not just someone who wins."
Someone at the far end of the table raised a hand. "What about Damon Cross?"
Murmurs moved through the room.
The producer nodded once. "Good name. Massive rise. Legit champ. But…"
He paused.
"…he's too clean."
Another person looked up. "Too clean?"
The producer turned toward the board. "No beefs. No drama. He doesn't chase media. He avoids trash talk unless provoked. We put him in and yes, we'll get fans, but not tension. And that's what drives episodes."
A younger exec leaned forward. "Shane Brickland?"
The room chuckled, a few shaking their heads.
"Shane's been shouting into the wind for a year now," someone muttered.
"He's loud," the producer said, considering it. "But the skill gap makes it hard to justify. It's gotta be someone who can at least make the audience believe it's competitive."
Another name was thrown out.
"Zach Cowen?"
"Good fighter, bad mic."
"Batu? If he's still active."
"He might retire by then."
The room went quiet for a moment.
The producer finally said, "We need rivals. Conflicting styles. A story people can invest in. Not just highlights."
He circled Damon's name on the board.
"Keep him in consideration. If things shift, if he picks up a real enemy, or if someone climbs high enough to look like a real threat, then yeah. Damon Cross becomes the centerpiece."
"But if not…" he wiped his hand down the board and underlined another section labeled "Wildcard Picks."
"…we build tension from scratch."
The lead producer nodded once and capped the marker.
"Alright, let's just hold on coaches for now," he said, stepping back from the board. "But let's start scouting fighters."
The room stirred with quiet agreement. Pages flipped. Laptops opened. The hunt had begun.
Back in Stockton, the family of four walked into the building, Victor already ahead, checking things behind the scenes.
Damon held the door open for Svetlana, who carried Ava snug against her chest.
The air inside was familiar. Sharp. Damp with the smell of sweat, dust, and old ambition.
As they passed through the entrance hallway, Damon couldn't help but slow his steps.
His eyes scanned the walls, the floor, the scuffed baseboards.
This was where he used to move silently, tired from long days or hungry between matches.
He remembered these exact halls, walking back after a fight, gloves still on, head rattling from adrenaline, or walking in from the locker room, trying to stay calm.
He looked over at the corner hallway, to the door half open at the end.
That was the old changing room.
For a moment, he almost asked if they could detour. Just for a second. But he let the thought drift. It wasn't about the past right now.
They continued walking.
The venue had been cleaned up since the last time he'd been here. Not much, but enough.
The back bleachers were newer. The lights brighter. But the bones were the same.
They approached the platform Victor had arranged, nothing too flashy, but placed in a clean viewing spot that overlooked the center cage.
It wasn't too exposed, tucked along the side wall but high enough to see every inch of action. Damon nodded in approval.
"Good view," he said.
Svetlana looked around, nodding. "It feels… gritty."
Damon smirked. "Yeah. That's the charm."
He turned, glancing out across the cage floor again. Fighters were warming up in the far corner, gloves on, heads down.
It didn't take long for the event to start.
The seats began to fill gradually, most of them taken by locals, friends, relatives, and regulars who still remembered the smell of old gloves and the sting of low-level body shots.
It wasn't a packed crowd, but the energy was real.
Smaller audiences always had that, louder cheers, more direct support, no restraint.
They weren't there to be part of a spectacle. They were there because someone they knew was stepping into the cage.
Soon, the first fighters were called.
The announcer's voice cracked through a mic that had seen better days, and two fighters made their way out from opposite corners of the building, each flanked by one coach, no team, no fanfare.
Damon leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other.
The crowd got loud, clapping and yelling names like it was the final of a title match. That was the charm of it.
The bell rang. The fight began.
From the first exchange, it was clear, this wasn't elite-level MMA.
Punches were wild. Footwork was non-existent. Kicks were thrown with zero setup. No one checked anything. No one cut angles.
But Damon didn't mock it.
In fact, he smiled.
It was refreshing.
He'd spent the last few years watching killers. Fighting the best of the best.
Men who knew every feint, every inch of timing. Watching two amateurs go all-out with no regard for rhythm, technique, or consequence, it was strangely entertaining.
Raw. Ugly. Real.
Still, it was frustrating.
One of the fighters had a clean path to a rear-naked choke but abandoned it to throw wild ground-and-pound.
Another had a clear chance to reset and jab his way in, but rushed into a sloppy clinch and got reversed.
Damon didn't say anything out loud, but his head tilted every time someone missed an obvious opportunity.
He looked over at Victor once, who was watching with a similar expression, mild amusement, mild disappointment, and a flicker of nostalgic understanding.
This was how it all began.
