MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon finished up training for the day, sweat soaking through the fabric of his shirt, hands sore from another hard session of pads, clinch, and drills.

His breathing was steady, his body loose.

The gym lights above buzzed faintly, casting a glow over the mats as he stood there, relaxed and smiling to himself.

He'd been doing this long enough to recognize the difference between pushing through discomfort and thriving in it.

At first, adjusting to the added weight had been strange. His balance had shifted. His movement felt a little off.

There was more mass to control, more pressure on the joints, and a whole different tempo to manage. But that was weeks ago.

Now he moved like he had always belonged here.

From the outside, Damon had always looked like a natural middleweight.

He never struggled with the weight cut, his system kept him in check, always hovering just close enough.

But now, walking around at 205 and training at a pace that hadn't dipped at all, he realized something he hadn't been honest about before.

He had never truly felt like himself as a middleweight.

This weight… this build… this pace?

This was him.

He could feel it in the torque of his hips when he threw kicks. In the short, explosive bursts of power when he punched.

His strength had risen so much he couldn't help but smile about it.

Even if he was exaggerating in his head, it felt like if he fought a middleweight right now, it would take one or two clean punches, and the fight would be over.

He didn't move like a lumbering powerhouse either. His cardio hadn't slipped. His timing remained sharp. If anything, he felt better. He felt dangerous.

As he leaned against the cage, towel over his shoulder, he glanced at his reflection in the far mirror.

The man staring back looked familiar but refined. Bigger. More complete.

He went on and washed up, letting the heat of the water soak into his skin.

It had been a long training day, one of the toughest since he moved up in weight.

His arms ached, his shoulders burned, and his jaw felt tight from the pressure of his mouthguard. But that was the work he had signed up for.

He scrubbed himself off in silence, the steam clouding the mirror as the sweat and chalk rinsed away.

After a while, he stepped out, dried off, and got dressed, nothing fancy. Just a clean shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Something comfortable for the day ahead.

He was going shopping with Svetlana later. They had planned it early in the week.

Ava needed some new clothes, she was growing fast, and Svetlana wanted to check out some furniture.

It was a small errand, nothing urgent, but one of those peaceful, everyday things that made life feel normal between fight camps.

Before heading out, Damon made his way toward the office. Victor had mentioned earlier that he wanted to talk.

It hadn't seemed urgent at the time, but with Victor, anything could become something important.

He knocked on the door once.

"Enter," Victor's voice came from inside, steady as always.

Damon opened the door and stepped in. Victor sat behind his desk, one hand on a tablet, the other cradling a half-empty cup of coffee.

"I'm leaving," Damon said, pausing a step inside. "You said you had something you wanted to tell me about?"

Victor looked up, blinked, and set the tablet aside. "Oh, right. Yeah. Sit down."

Damon walked over and took the chair across from him, eyebrows lifted slightly as he waited.

Victor leaned back in his seat, arms crossing. "So… yesterday I got a call."

He paused just long enough for Damon to narrow his eyes.

"From Mollywood."

Damon tilted his head. That wasn't what he expected to hear.

Victor smirked faintly. "You've actually been offered a role in a movie."

Damon leaned back a bit in the chair. "A role?"

"Yup," Victor nodded. "Big-budget action drama. Not some indie flick either. Real director, real backing. They want you to play a former fighter who gets pulled back into the ring for a personal reason, mentor dies, something like that."

Damon blinked once, slowly. "That sounds cliché as hell."

Victor chuckled. "That's because it is. But the paycheck isn't. And they're not asking for you to carry the whole movie. Just a major supporting role. Enough to give it star power. Your name sells, Damon. People pay attention now."

Damon stayed quiet for a few seconds, thinking.

"I didn't ask for this," he said flatly.

Victor nodded. "No, you didn't. But you've earned it. You've put yourself on the radar. This is what happens when you're the face of a sport."

Damon exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not an actor."

"You don't have to be. You just have to show up, be yourself, and hit your marks. They'll handle the rest."

Damon shook his head slightly, unsure. "I've got a fight in two months. That's the focus."

"And no one's saying otherwise," Victor replied. "This isn't for now. They're aiming to film after summer. So after the Jon fight, if you're still interested, it's something we can talk about."

Damon didn't answer immediately. He looked out the small window in the office, letting the idea sit for a moment.

Then he looked back at Victor. "Send me the script when they have it. I'll look."

Victor gave a short nod. "Done."

Damon stood up. "Alright, I'm off."

"Don't get lost in the mall," Victor said, picking his tablet back up.

Damon smirked as he left the room. "No promises."

Damon moved fast. Svetlana was probably complaining by now.

He stepped out of the gym, jogging lightly toward the parking lot while pulling his phone from his pocket. Three missed texts. All from her.

『 "You said five minutes."

"It's been fifteen."

"I swear, Damon, if you're making me wait in heels…"』

He chuckled under his breath, tapping a quick reply.

『"On my way, blame Victor."』

Sliding into the car, he tossed his gym bag into the back seat, started the engine, and pulled out.

Traffic wasn't bad. A good sign. He glanced at the passenger seat where her shopping list sat folded in half.

Ava's new clothes, something for the kitchen, and probably a detour into a few stores that weren't on the plan.

He didn't mind. After weeks of sparring and prep, a day like this felt like a reward.

And if Svetlana gave him hell for being late, he figured he could survive that too.