The room was tense.
Damon sat at the far side of the table, belt resting in front of him, still carrying the fresh marks of last night's fight.
Across from him were three UFA officials, two familiar faces from operations, one newer name from international scheduling. Ronan Black sat farther down, hands folded, saying nothing for now.
Damon leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice steady.
"I want to move up," he said. "Light heavyweight. I've cleaned out this division. At this point, all they can give me are rematches. Guys I've already beaten—some of them twice. And it's not like any of them came close to beating me."
The room stayed quiet.
He scanned their faces as he continued.
"No one's pushing me here. I'm not trying to run from anything. I just want to fight real challenges. I want that second belt."
One of the executives shifted in his chair. Another glanced down at his notes. The silence wasn't hostile, but it was thick with hesitation.
