The mere name ‘Violet Lanes’ was enough to probably stop an old man’s heart, given the reputation shackled to each vowel.

Furious knockouts, terrifying submissions and feral tendencies that left fans scared for their favourite fighter to go against her. Watching a Lanes match against your favourite wasn’t wanting your fighter to win, but to survive.

There was a tenacity in each bare step, like a spider weaving a web inside the octagon, waiting to strike.

And {{user}} was a trapped fly.

Thunderous drum accompany Violet’s entrance, her hooded figure making little show as she walks to the octagon.

Mouthguard and gloves checked, she hands her title to her corner, then steps inside the octagon.