Jackson Rhodes arrives only shortly before the undercard begins. The moment he steps into the VIP section, several people immediately greet him with familiar nods and handshakes.

He barely responds beyond polite acknowledgment before continuing toward ringside where Hugo Ramirez is already seated comfortably near the consortium section, one arm resting across the back of his chair while watching the arena preparations.

"You look irritated," Hugo Ramirez says the moment Jackson takes the seat beside him.

Jackson loosens the front of his suit slightly before answering. "That kid from Japan turned out more troublesome than expected."

Hugo glances sideways at him. "Ryoma Takeda?"

Jackson nods once. "I was already ninety-nine percent certain we had Kenta Moriyama." A faint scoff escapes him afterward. "Then that kid pulled him back at the last second."

That answer immediately catches Hugo’s attention more seriously now. Because men in this business understand exactly what it means for someone like Jackson Rhodes to admit a negotiation slipped away after reaching that point.

"Ninety-nine percent?" Hugo repeats.

Jackson leans back slightly in his seat. "Moriyama already wanted to leave. That much was obvious. We gave him security, money, career guarantees, everything a fighter in his position should logically accept."

Ramirez’s eyes widen. "And that kid stopped that?"

"No," Jackson says calmly. "That’s the annoying part. He barely even tried to persuade him directly. He simply changed the pressure inside the room. Made the offer look less like opportunity and more like debt. Then he positioned himself as someone willing to let Moriyama walk away freely."

A faint smile pulls at Jackson’s mouth, though there’s no amusement behind it now. "He pushed all his chips forward with a terrible hand and still managed to bluff everyone at the table."

Hugo stays quiet for a moment after hearing that. Because that description sounds far more dangerous than simple charisma. It means Ryoma understood the psychology of the negotiation itself.

"He was willing to risk losing both the fighter and the million dollars?" Ramirez mutters, the disbelief in his voice becoming harder to hide now.

Jackson nods once. "And he still went through with it without hesitation."

The arena suddenly erupts as Shimamura Suzuki appears on the massive screen during his entrance walk.

A roar rolls across the building almost immediately.

"SHIMAMURA!"

"DRUNKEN MASTER!"

"SU-ZU-KI! SU-ZU-KI! SU-ZU-KI!"

The chants begin spreading from section to section until large parts of the crowd are repeating his name together while phones rise everywhere to record the entrance.

"The Drunken Master from the East!"

The nickname flashes repeatedly across the LED displays while Shimamura continues walking toward the ring without reacting much to any of it.

His face remains stoic beneath the arena lights, dark unkempt stubble covering his jaw while his half-lidded eyes make him look less like a fighter entering a major ranking bout and more like a man dragged unwillingly out of a bar somewhere.

"LET’S GO, SHIMAMURA!"

"KNOCK HIM OUT!"

And somehow, that rough, indifferent image only makes the audience louder.

For a moment, even Jackson’s attention drifts fully toward the entrance ramp. But the irritation lingering from Tokyo still refuses to leave him completely. The memory of Ryoma Takeda turning that negotiation around at the last second continues sitting unpleasantly in the back of his mind.

Beside him, Hugo Ramirez’s attention shifts too, though not entirely toward Shimamura himself. His eyes settle instead on the man walking directly behind him.

It’s Frank Donovan, one of the most respected trainers in American boxing, the same man currently handling the reigning featherweight world champion.

And beyond even that, Shimamura’s move to America had been arranged personally by Logan Rhodes himself. That combination alone already reveals enough.

Ramirez studies the entrance for another second before speaking quietly.

"Is that the guy your father prepared to stop Takeda’s career?"

Jackson nods once. "That’s what he said."

Ramirez keeps watching Shimamura descend the ramp slowly. "Is he really good enough to beat him?"

"My father sees him as Takeda’s antithesis," Jackson says. Then his mouth twists faintly afterward. "Though honestly, I don’t really like the guy’s attitude."

Ramirez glances sideways. "Difficult personality?"

"Not exactly." Jackson leans back slightly in his seat. "His training approach is just... strange."

That finally pulls Ramirez’s full attention away from the ring. Jackson continues while Shimamura steps through the ropes and moves toward the blue corner.

"He has the ability to enter flow state during fights. Extremely dangerous once he reaches it. But to trigger that condition, he needs ecstasy first."

Ramirez frowns immediately, already confused by where this explanation is going.

"And the way he reaches that feeling," Jackson continues calmly, "is by deliberately damaging his own physical condition."

"...What?"

"He trains properly during camp," Jackson says. "But once fight week approaches, he starts weakening himself on purpose."

Ramirez stares at him now, visibly unable to follow the logic.

"Ecstasy?" he mutters. "So that drunken dance thing..."

"That’s not just a performance," Jackson cuts in. "And it’s not gimmick either. What you’re seeing is simply the result of terrible conditioning."

Ramirez slowly turns his attention back toward the ring. Shimamura is already standing alone inside the blue corner now, rolling his shoulders lazily while the crowd continues chanting around him.

Ramirez narrows his eyes slightly. "He looks completely normal to me."

"Well," Jackson says, "lately we found another method to give him that same ecstasy. But it’s still something that’ll destroy him in long term. I just hope he doesn’t break apart before getting the chance to beat Ryoma Takeda."

Ramirez studies Jackson carefully after hearing that answer.

Then his eyes narrow slightly. "...Did you give him something before the fight?"

Jackson slowly turns toward him, his expression sharpening at once. "I never said anything," he says coldly. "And you’d better not start making your own assumptions either. You hear me?"

Ramirez swallows once and immediately shifts his attention back toward the ring. Then he forces out a small laugh, clearly trying to dissolve the tension he accidentally created.

"Well," he says lightly, "if Logan Rhodes himself brought this guy over, then he must really believe Shimamura can beat Takeda."

Jackson watches the ring quietly for another second before the frustration from Tokyo returning again.

"He has the potential," he admits. "But honestly? Ryoma Takeda worries me more as a businessman than as a fighter."

The arena lights dim once again not long after Shimamura settles into the blue corner, and moments later, Elliot Graves’ name appears across the massive screen overhead.

The reaction from the audience immediately swells louder than before. Not because of novelty this time, but because the crowd already knows exactly who he is.

"ELLIOT!"

"THE PHANTOM!"

"LET’S GO, GRAVES!"

The cheers roll heavily through the arena as Elliot Graves finally emerges beneath the entrance lights, carrying himself with the calm composure of someone long accustomed to fighting on major stages like this.

Unlike Shimamura’s rough and almost careless presence, Elliot walks toward the ring with clean, measured confidence, every movement controlled, every expression composed. His reputation as one of the division’s most elusive technicians has already been established for years.

And much of that identity comes from the Soviet-style influence behind his boxing; disciplined footwork, sharp angles, constant repositioning, and the ability to make opponents slowly fall apart while chasing him around the ring.

Even now, commentary surrounding him still inevitably circles back toward the same unfinished storyline; his long-rumored fight against Celeb Mercer, a matchup the boxing world has been discussing for years despite never fully materializing.

"Listen to this crowd reaction," one commentator says as Elliot continues his walk toward the ring. "This is what happens when a fighter spends years performing at world-class level. Elliot Graves already feels like a main-event fighter no matter where you place him on the card."

"And if he wins tonight," the second commentator adds, "the pressure to finally make that Celeb Mercer fight is only going to become bigger."

Near ringside, one of the promoters sitting beside Hugo Ramirez leans slightly toward him, still watching Elliot’s entrance with visible curiosity.

"How exactly did you even convince Graves to accept this fight?" he asks. "A fourth-ranked contender risking his position against an unknown fighter from Japan doesn’t sound cheap."

Ramirez gives a small shrug. "We offered him something significant, obviously. But money alone wasn’t enough to make this happen."

His gaze shifts briefly toward Elliot climbing into the ring. "We had to promise him the Mercer fight afterward. But only if he beats Shimamura first."

That answer immediately draws surprised reactions from several promoters nearby, a few of them turning toward Ramirez with visible disbelief on their faces.

The promoter beside him lets out a faint scoff. "That’s a pretty serious gamble just to test some Japanese prospect."

Ramirez’s eyes slowly move across the ring toward Shimamura, who still stands quietly in the opposite corner with that same detached expression on his face, almost like the scale of the event means nothing to him.

Then Ramirez smiles faintly. "That’s because he isn’t just some unknown Japanese fighter."