The roar of the Scrapyard hit me like a physical wave, vibrating through the soles of my feet and turning my blood into liquid electricity. There was no walkout track, no curated beat—just the raw, jagged wall of sound from a crowd that had already tasted blood. It was glorious. Most guys get tunnel vision and see the cage as a coffin; I see it as the only stage big enough for my personality.
I didn't wait for the official to open the gate. I grabbed the top of the chain-link, the cold metal biting into my palms, and vaulted over the top with a fluid, practiced grace that sent a fresh wave of noise through the rafters. My blonde hair was pulled back into a tight, punishing knot, keeping the world in clear, sharp focus.
I landed on the canvas and didn't even look at the man in the opposit
