Across the hall, the pre-show cameras are rolling. is leaning into a microphone, his voice booming through the monitors in the back. "Vance is a dog, but he’s walking into a buzzsaw tonight," Bisping says, pointing to the stats of Vance’s opponent, a Russian phenom who hasn't lost since he was twelve.
His coach, a man with skin like old leather, leans in. "You hear them, Leo? They’ve already written the obituary. You’re just the guy meant to look good on someone else’s highlight reel."
Leo doesn't blink. He stares at the monitor as his opponent makes the walk—stone-faced, draped in a flag, looking like an apex predator. The "Pre-Show" analysts are debating whether the fight will even go past the first round.
Suddenly, the production assistant sticks her head in the door. "Vance, you’re up. Two minutes."
Leo watches the screen, wrapping his hands with surgical precision. Every loop of the white gauze is a memory: the three-hour bus rides to the gym, the smell of cheap linoleum, and the nights he spent sleeping on the mats because he couldn't afford gas.