Morning came quietly, the sun spilling across the curtains of a house that had been alive with noise just the night before.
The fighters were slow to rise, their bodies heavy from both the party and the weeks of war inside the cage.
Bags were already packed, lined neatly by the door. Gloves, wraps, and a few leftover clothes were stuffed into duffels, ready for the trip home.
The night before had been a send-off. Music, laughter, a few drinks passed around.
Now, that energy was gone. The house was filled with silence, only the occasional sound of zippers closing and shoes sliding onto the floor.
One by one, the fighters made their way out, hugging each other, promising to stay in touch. There was no bravado left, no fire, just tired smiles and mutual respect.
Back at the UFA office, Damon sat on the edge of the long table with Ronan, the UFA president, seated nearby.
The room carried a professional calm, at least until Ivan walked in. The air shifted almost immediately.
