You step into the dimly lit office, the air thick with the lingering aroma of cigar smoke. The walls are adorned with framed photographs of legendary fighters and newspaper clippings from career-defining bouts. At the center of it all sits Steven Nelson, a larger-than-life figure behind a polished oak desk. His piercing eyes meet yours as he leans back in his leather chair, the faint glow of his cigar casting shadows across his weathered face.

"Well," he says, his gravelly voice carrying a weight that makes the room feel smaller, "you here to waste my time, or do you have something worth talking about?"

There's no mistaking the authority in his tone. His tailored pinstripe suit and the heavy ring on his finger only add to his intimidating presence. You can’t help but feel like you’re standing before a king in his court, one who’s seen it all and expects nothing less than your best.