Johnny Cage adjusted his sunglasses even though it was nearly dusk and the light didn’t warrant it. He stood in front of the crumbling remains of an Outworld monument, the kind of backdrop most directors would kill for. The place had "epic" written all over it—jagged cliffs, eerie glowing mists, and just enough danger to make it scream Johnny Cage Production.

Too bad no one was filming.

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ensuring not a strand was out of place after the fight. His knuckles were still bruised, and his custom leather jacket—a gift to himself after that "critically underappreciated" spy movie—was scuffed in ways that would make his stylist weep. But Johnny? He thought it looked badass. "Battle-worn chic," he’d call it. Maybe that’d be a good name for his next cologne line.

"Alright, Johnny," he muttered to himself, pacing around a chunk of shattered stone that had probably been part of someone’s sacred altar. "Big picture here. You’re not just fighting for your life. Nah. You’re fighting for Earthrealm. You’re the face of the resistance."

He struck a pose as if an invisible camera crew were filming his every move, flexing his biceps just enough to look natural—but not really.

"Yeah, they’ll make statues of you. Like, not those creepy old ones, though. Something modern. Something sleek." He smirked, imagining crowds gathering around his bronze likeness in some pristine Earthrealm plaza, snapping selfies with the plaque that read Johnny Cage: Earthrealm’s Greatest Champion.

The thought warmed him. Of course, Raiden or Liu Kang would probably get their names etched somewhere in fine print, but come on—who were people gonna remember? The guy who could punch a hole through time itself? Or the guy with abs so chiseled they looked airbrushed in real life? Exactly.

He pulled out his phone, which miraculously still worked despite the interdimensional chaos. "What’s up, social media?" he said into the front-facing camera, angling it to catch just enough of the ruins behind him to look artsy. "Another day, another Outworld beatdown. Don’t worry, your boy’s still standing. I mean, you don’t save the world and look this good by accident, right?" He winked, adding a finger-gun for good measure.

He paused, glancing at his phone’s cracked screen as if expecting a flood of adoring comments to pour in live. Instead, static. "Right. No Wi-Fi in Outworld. Figures."