Las Vegas.
The crowd was already pouring into the arena, but Damon and his team had arrived hours earlier.
He was dressed down for now, sweatpants and a black UFA t-shirt, his fight gear already underneath. His hands weren't wrapped yet, but the air around him had already shifted. It was calm, but focused. You could feel the weight of the night ahead.
Damon sat on a bench in the warm-up room, legs slightly apart, leaning forward as he spoke with one of his corner team members, a guy named Marco.
Marco was older by a few years. A former fighter himself. He wasn't loud or flashy, just sharp. Reliable. The kind of teammate who did his homework, who spoke when it mattered, and who had earned Damon's respect over time.
They were reviewing the game plan, not from scratch, but the last-minute checks. Watching for Desayen's setups, his feints, his sneaky high kicks, the long reach he liked to use to bait counters.
