Despite the shift in atmosphere, the house itself hadn't turned into a war zone, yet.

Sure, fighters kept their distance during meals, conversations were shorter, and no one was openly sharing strategies anymore, but there hadn't been a single explosive argument under the same roof.

It was a quiet tension, the kind that didn't need shouting to be felt.

The gym, however, was another story entirely.

Once training started, every little decision became a potential spark.

Fighters were more protective over pad work, more critical of sparring partners, and more suspicious about how hard their teammates were going during drills.

Damon had to step in more than once, shutting down situations before they got ugly.

It wasn't about bad blood, it was about survival. Everyone knew the bracket meant there were no more safe matchups.

Every man in the room could be the one standing across from them next, and that made every round, every grip fight, every counter in practice feel just a little more personal. Damon could see it building.

He adjusted the sessions constantly, splitting people apart, rotating partners, and running group drills instead of direct sparring whenever he sensed things getting too heated.

But even with all the changes, the edge in the air stayed sharp.

.

.

.

Fight day came fast. For the lightweights, it was Ronny McGregor against Ayo Fasusi. Two men who'd trained side by side for weeks now had to face each other with no holding back.

In the middleweight division, it was Thami Zulu versus Chase Dunham, another teammate clash no one expected when they first walked into the house.

The watchers in the training center's arena was buzzin even before the first walkout.

Everyone understood what these matchups meant.

This wasn't just a test of skill, but of how far fighters were willing to push against people they'd shared meals and game nights with.

For some, it would be the hardest fight mentally they'd ever had.

Back in the warmup rooms, the atmosphere was dead silent except for the sound of pads being hit and coaches giving last-minute reminders.

Damon knew today wasn't about tactics, it was about who could keep their emotions in check when the bell rang.

And judging by the sharp, deliberate pace of every warmup movement, both fights were going to be intense from the first second.

Under normal circumstances, Damon would have been in one fighter's corner, setting the tone, pushing pace, and making adjustments.

But this time was different. He had trained both men, pushed both through drills, corrected their technique, and sharpened their strengths.

Choosing a corner now would mean choosing a side, and that wasn't going to happen.

He decided before the weigh-ins that the assistant coaches would corner them.

Damon would watch from outside the cage, arms folded, reading the fight without saying a word.

It was a strange setup for the team.

These were men who'd been warming up next to each other for weeks, sharing game nights in the house, laughing over bad cooking experiments in the kitchen.

Now, they stood across the cage, gloves taped, eyes locked, ready to hit each other until someone's dream moved forward and someone's ended.

In the warmup area, Ronny's Irish walkout music played faintly in the distance.

He shadowboxed in the corner, sharp and focused.

Ayo, in the opposite room, bounced lightly on his feet, eyes shut, mouthing silent prayers.

Even though Damon wasn't in their corners, both had his voice in their heads from all the hours in the gym.

The assistants were split, one with Ronny, one with Ayo, giving last-minute reminders on game plans.

They weren't going to reinvent anything. These men knew what to do. The only question was who would execute under the lights.

The cage-side staff watchers leaned in as the fighters were announced. The tension wasn't bitter, there was no trash talk or any heated stare-down.

But the competitiveness was there in every detail, from the way they stepped forward to touch gloves, to the subtle tightening of their shoulders before the bell rang.

For Damon, it was an odd mix of pride and discomfort.

He had no control here, and for someone who lived for competition, that was harder than it looked.

This wasn't about his rivalry with Ivan or the bigger picture of the tournament, it was about two men who had to put camaraderie aside for fifteen minutes.

And when the referee called for the bell, the noise in the arena shifted.

This wasn't a sparring session. This was the fight that would decide who stayed in the competition.

The winner of this fight would secure a direct ticket to the finals. No second chances or consolation bouts. Just one step away from the ultimate prize.

The cage door shut behind them with a metallic thud, and the announcer's voice boomed across the arena, introducing both men with all the usual flair.

Ronny McGregor, fighting out of Dublin, Ireland. Ayo Fasusi, representing Lagos, Nigeria.

The teammates gave each a respectable cheer, knowing they were about to see fellow teammates collide.

Once the introductions ended, the referee motioned for them to step to the center.

Both men obeyed, closing the distance until they stood only a foot apart. The ref's tone was firm and professional as he went over the rules.

"Alright, gentlemen, you know the rules. Protect yourself at all times. Obey my commands at all times. Keep it clean, no strikes to the back of the head, no groin shots. If you want to stop the action for any reason, give me a clear signal. If there's a foul, I'll call time and handle it. You fight until I say stop. Understand?"

Both men nodded in unison, their eyes locked but respectful.

"Touch gloves if you wish."

Ronny extended his hands first. Ayo met them without hesitation, a brief tap that said they were still teammates, at least until the bell.

Then they turned, each walking back to their corners with steady, measured steps, ready for the war ahead.