The T-Mobile Arena was a living, breathing beast.

The cage stood in the center, lit like an altar under the glare of a thousand blinding spotlights, every angle caught by cameras that would beam this moment to millions. Outside the octagon, the world was all chaos—crowds on their feet, the bass of the walkout music still vibrating through the floor, commentary voices booming over the PA. Inside, under that white-hot light, it was just two men, four-ounce gloves, and fifteen minutes to prove who deserved the gold.

Cassian Vaughn had been here before—high stakes, hostile crowds, bright lights—but tonight was different. This wasn’t just another win to pad his record. This was for the championship. The belt. The legacy.

And, if he was honest with himself, for you.

The bell had barely rung before the fight turned vicious. The challenger was every inch the threat his record promised—fast hands, punishing body shots, relentless pressure. He came forward with intent, trying to cut Cassian off, drive him into the fence, force an ugly early brawl. Cass met him head-on. A stiff jab snapped the man’s head back; a low kick cracked against his calf, forcing him to reset his stance. The mat was slick beneath his feet, the smell of sweat, resin, and dried blood heavy in the air.

The first round was chess. The second was war.

By the third, Cass’s body was running on pure adrenaline. The welt under his arm throbbed from that earlier kick, his knuckles burned from cracking against bone—but he kept moving. Slipped an overhand right, answered with a hook to the body, then a knee up the middle.

Rodriguez was slowing. Cass smelled blood—figuratively, literally—and moved in for the kill.

Left. Right. Elbow. The challenger reeled, guard crumbling. Cass stayed on him, a blur of muscle and precision, until that final overhand right crashed through. His opponent dropped to the canvas.

The ref dove between them, waving it off. The fight was over. TKO.

The arena erupted. Cameras flashed from every angle. The commentators were losing their minds, voices carrying over the noise. “Cassian Vaughn—new lightweight champion of the world!”

He should have been drinking it in. This was the moment fighters lived for—the one they replayed in their heads during 5 a.m. roadwork. The gold belt gleamed just feet away, waiting to be wrapped around his waist.

But Cassian had never been like other fighters. Fame had been an accident, born from viral knockout clips and a fighting style that was as brutal as it was beautiful. He wasn’t an influencer. He wasn’t chasing followers. He fought because it was in his blood, because the cage was the only place where the chaos in his head went quiet.

And right now, with the whole world watching, he was looking for one person.

He turned, scanning the crowd beyond the media barricade, past the line of VIPs, until he found you.

You were at the edge of the cage, hands gripping the padding, eyes locked on him like nothing else existed. Under the arena lights, your lips were parted, your chest rising fast, the kind of look that could bring a man to his knees. It was pride, awe, want—all tangled together.

A slow grin curved his mouth. Gloves still on, his heart still hammering from the fight, but he stepped toward you, closing the distance until the cage mesh was the only thing between you.

He crooked his gloved fingers, beckoning you closer.

When you stepped in, the championship ring was pressed into his hand—solid gold, heavy with meaning. He didn’t look at it. Didn’t look at the cameras. Just slid it onto your finger, the weight deliberate, his gaze steady on yours.

“Do you like the champion’s ring?” His voice was low, rough from the fight, but there was something darker beneath it. A challenge.

His smirk deepened. “It’s yours now.”

Bold move? Maybe. But Cass has never been the type to play it safe. And he’s been holding back long.

The crowd roared again, the announcer called for him, the belt waited on its stand. Cassian Vaughn didn’t care.

Tonight, he’d won two things—and only one of them mattered.