Theo was ready to announce himself to the world—he just didn’t know the world was about to end.
"Unbelievable. They let a hack like you into the GFL?" sneered Max, "The Mauler" Mason. He was the opponent for the upcoming fight and a knuckle-dragging stereotype of every meathead bruiser Theo had ever encountered.
He had a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder and shoulders that seemed permanently hunched from carrying his ego.
His shaved head gleamed under the stage lights, whilst his cauliflower ears told a story of years in brutal combat, though his insults suggested most of the brain cells had been left behind in the cage.
Max’s neck was so thick it looked like it had aspirations of becoming a second torso. “I’ve seen moms doing boxercise at my gym hit harder than you.”
Theo smirked and leaned into the mic. The heavyweight prospect stood at 6'4" with a lean, muscular frame. He radiated a mix of cocky confidence and restless energy.
His brown hair was perpetually messy, a perfect match for his lopsided grin, and his icy blue eyes gleamed with a spark of mischief that had always made him a crowd favourite.
The sleeve tattoo of a blood moon amidst the clouds on his left arm seemed almost alive as he gestured, a symbol of a darkness within him at odds with his cheeky persona. "Oh, your gym caters to moms? That explains a lot—especially since you’ve been dribbling through this conference like a toddler."
The crowd erupted in laughter, a mix of genuine amusement and schadenfreude at Max’s expense. Max’s face turned a shade of red that could have guided planes in for a landing.
Max’s hands slammed onto the table. “You’re gonna regret that, Kane.” The microphones trembled, and so did the event manager standing off to the side.
Theo widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Regret? I regret a lot of things already. Like eating that gas station sushi last week. Or signing up to fight someone who sounds like a rejected action movie villain.”
More laughter, though this time the event manager’s face had paled significantly. Theo could practically hear her internal monologue screaming: Please don’t let this devolve into a brawl again. Please.
Max didn’t get the memo. In a flash, he was on his feet, lunging across the table with a snarl that would have made a pit bull reconsider its life choices. Theo’s instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up, and he sidestepped just as Max’s fist came crashing down where his head had been.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Theo said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Save it for the ring, champ. Or are you trying to get yourself out of it early?”
The crowd erupted into chaos. Security scrambled to separate them, but Max was in full rampage mode, swatting at anyone who got too close as security attempted to hold him back. Theo, ever the opportunist, made a dramatic show of dusting himself off before slapping Max across the face with an open palm.
The slap wasn’t meant to hurt—just to humiliate. Judging by Max’s wide eyes and agape mouth, it worked.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Max blinked, jaw slack. “Did you just… slap me?”
Theo smirked, leaning in just enough to whisper, “Maybe.”
Max roared, lunging again, but this time the security team was ready. They hauled him back, kicking and screaming, while Theo gave a little wave to the cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Mauler! Let’s hear it for his breath-taking performance in interpretive tantrum-throwing.”
The audience’s laughter and applause followed Theo as he was escorted offstage, ostensibly for his own safety, but mostly because the event manager looked like she was about to have a stroke.
In the quiet of the backstage room, Theo finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He sank into the only chair in the room, a lumpy thing that felt like it had been salvaged from a dumpster. For the first time all day, there were no cameras, no crowds, no expectations. Just him and his thoughts.
And maybe, just maybe, a tiny sliver of doubt.
Was he pushing too hard? The GFL was his big break, his shot at going pro after years of street fights and small-time matches. But his mouth had always been both his best weapon and his greatest liability. People already dubbed him "The next Conrad McGregor".
“Meh, too late to change now,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. His phone buzzed on the table, probably a barrage of angry texts from his coach, Tom. Instead, there was nothing. No texts, no calls, no notifications. Not even a missed call from his gym buddy reminding him to drink more water.
“Huh.” Theo frowned. That was weird. Tom usually sent at least one profanity-laden tirade after Theo pulled a stunt like that. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 12:03 p.m.
And right then, the world ended.
It began as a low hum, faint and almost imperceptible, like the resonance of a far-off engine. Theo barely had time to sit up before the walls around him shimmered, their solid edges rippling as though submerged in water. His breath caught as cracks snaked along the ceiling—not cracks of plaster or concrete, but fissures of light, jagged and impossibly bright.
“What in the hell?” Theo whispered, his voice swallowed by the strange, growing vibration in the air. He stepped toward the door, but the floor beneath him undulated, throwing him off balance. The light from the cracks intensified, spreading across the walls and ceiling like veins of molten energy.
A sound, sharp and crystalline, pierced through the hum. Theo flinched as the very fabric of the room shattered—no, dissolved. Pieces of his surroundings disintegrated into fragments of white light, floating upward like embers before vanishing entirely. He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing against nothing but cold, empty space where the door had been moments before.
“Theo, relax” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling as panic gripped his chest. “You must have let your guard down and he got you. This is obviously just a—”
The floor vanished beneath his feet.
Theo stumbled, his arms flailing for something solid, something real. He fell, but not downward—there was no sensation of gravity, no pull. He was suspended, weightless in a void that stretched endlessly in every direction. Around him, the world dissolved into a lattice of glowing grids, infinite and alien, stretching into nothingness.
His mind rebelled against the sight. It was too much, too vast, too incomprehensible. His muscles tensed, but there was nothing to brace against, nothing to fight. He was utterly, terrifyingly powerless.
A pressure built behind his eyes, a pounding that matched the rhythm of the hum now vibrating through his entire body. He clenched his fists, willing his legs to move, his lungs to breathe, his mind to focus—do something, anything!
But there was nothing he could do.
The hum reached a crescendo, a deafening symphony of energy and light. Theo’s vision blurred as the grid pulsed with blinding intensity. His chest heaved, panic searing through him like fire—then, darkness.
His last thought, faint and bitterly ironic, was that the universe really knew how to ruin a good day.