Damon finally pulled away from Victor's embrace, still wiping at his face, still breathing uneven like everything inside him hadn't quite settled yet.
He bent forward, hands on his knees, not from exhaustion, not from pain, but from sheer emotion crashing down on him all at once.
Then slowly… he straightened up.
His eyes scanned the roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the sea of people on their feet chanting his name. He raised his hands in the air, not cocky, not arrogant, but grateful.
Grateful for surviving.
Grateful for making it.
Grateful for winning.
His team quickly slid in beside him. Someone tossed him a towel, another pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. Damon took it quietly, dabbing at the blood, Chemasov's blood, still painted across his chest and arms.
But he never stopped staring out the cage.
The commentators sat in silence for a brief moment before Mike Brewer finally spoke.
