The lights above cast a perfect glow onto the mat, giving the entire scene a surreal stillness, like a painting right before it came to life.
In one corner, Balim Chemasov crouched low, his knuckles pressed into the canvas. His stare didn't waver. It was sharp, burning, violent.
The kind of look that made it seem like you'd wronged him personally.
Like you had killed a relative of his.
Like this fight wasn't about belts, rankings, or legacy, like it was vengeance.
Every breath he took was controlled, but there was tension in the way he held his frame. The air around him felt heavy.
Across from him stood Damon Cross.
Arms relaxed by his sides. Feet planted. Chin slightly tucked. That earlier smile, the one from the walkout, was long gone.
He stared back.
Not flinching. Not shifting.
He didn't crouch. He didn't pace. He didn't blink.
Just stood there, like a tower, staring down a storm.
