When both fighters were finally in the cage, the energy inside the arena was almost unbearable.
The crowd was deafening, a chaotic blend of cheers, boos, and national chants. Irish flags waved in one section, Russian banners hung in another.
Some fans stood on their chairs, fists pumping as they screamed, while others simply stood silent, holding their breath. Everyone knew what was about to happen.
Damon Cross stood in his corner, calm but coiled. His chest rose and fell slowly, his eyes locked on the man across from him. Enton Malikin was pacing in his half of the cage, bouncing lightly, his gaze sharp, unblinking. Two different men. Two different styles. But they both carried the same weight now.
From the commentator's booth, the voices of the broadcast team carried over the noise.
"This is it," one of them said, his voice steady despite the madness around him. "Two of the best middleweights on the planet, and they are about to go at it."
