Suddenly, the production assistant sticks her head in the door. "Vance, you’re up. Two minutes."

Leo stands, the adrenaline finally hitting his bloodstream like a shot of liquid fire. He doesn't need the analysts to believe in him. He doesn't need the odds-makers to favor him. As he moves toward the tunnel, the muffled roar of the crowd starts to bleed through the walls.

The story they wrote for the pre-show was about a rising star’s easy night. Leo Vance is about to tear out the pages and write a . Should we dive into the first round of the fight, or

Leo watches the screen, wrapping his hands with surgical precision. Every loop of the white gauze is a memory: the three-hour bus rides to the gym, the smell of cheap linoleum, and the nights he spent sleeping on the mats because he couldn't afford gas.

His coach, a man with skin like old leather, leans in. "You hear them, Leo? They’ve already written the obituary. You’re just the guy meant to look good on someone else’s highlight reel."