UGP 70: KANE vs HOLMES LIVE!
ROUND ONE: The United Center buzzed with anticipation as the first fight of the night got underway, and the energy was electric when Maya Bell and PK Katana touched gloves. Bell, the undefeated southpaw prodigy, came out bouncing light on her feet, feinting with spinning kicks, and darting in and out with explosive bursts. Katana, calm in her orthodox stance, stayed patient, relying on razor sharp footwork and measured counters. The contrast was immediate. Bell fired off dynamic attacks, while Katana waited for windows to exploit. Early exchanges saw Bell launch a spinning back kick that skimmed Katana’s ribs, drawing a cheer from the Chicago crowd. Katana answered with a stiff one-two that split Bell’s guard, reminding her that accuracy trumps flash. As the round wore on, Bell pressed with volume, but Katana’s composure and head movement frustrated her. Katana began tagging Bell with crisp right hands, especially when Bell overextended. Midway through, Bell attempted to change gears, shooting for a takedown off a failed overhand. Katana sprawled hard, stuffed it, and landed a quick knee to the body on the exit. The crowd roared at the momentum shift. By the final minute, Katana was dictating distance with a piston jab, drawing visible frustration from Bell, who swung wild combinations that whistled through the air. The horn sounded with Katana closing strong with a sharp right cross followed by a digging body kick that echoed in the rafters. The fans erupted as the fighters walked back to their corners. Bell’s athletic creativity wowed, but Katana’s precision and composure gave her the slight edge.
ROUND TWO: The second round began with Maya Bell determined to reclaim momentum. She darted forward, snapping a lead right hook from her southpaw stance and following with a whipping body kick. The crowd popped as her speed came alive again. Katana, however, stayed cool under fire, circling to her right, forcing Bell to chase and exposing the gaps in her defense. Every time Bell lunged, Katana’s counters snapped like a whip as straight rights and inside leg kicks chopped at Bell’s base. About a minute in, Bell tried another flying knee, but Katana timed it beautifully, slipping just off the centerline and landing a clean right hook on the button. Bell stumbled back, her eyes wide for a moment, and the crowd roared as Katana advanced. She sensed an opportunity but didn’t rush, instead corralling Bell with feints and sharp combinations. Bell showed her resilience, rallying with a flurry of wild hooks that had the arena buzzing, though most of them glanced off Katana’s guard. Mid round, Bell attempted to reset by clinching, driving Katana to the fence. Here, the difference in skill was glaring. Katana quickly reversed position, dug her forehead into Bell’s chin, and ripped knees to the body. The crowd groaned at the thuds, and Bell’s breathing began to labor. Still, Bell’s athleticism shone in spurts. She broke free with a spinning elbow that grazed Katana’s temple, drawing an audible gasp. However, Katana remained surgical. She went back to her jab-cross-leg kick rhythm, each strike punctuating her control of range. In the closing thirty seconds, Bell launched another desperate blitz, but Katana punished her with a counter right, snapping her head back before delivering a punishing left hook to the liver. Bell staggered slightly, clutching at her side, and the crowd surged to its feet as the horn saved her from further punishment.
ROUND THREE: The final round opened with urgency radiating from Bell. Her corner had told her she was down, and she stormed forward, slinging high kicks and spinning back fists in a furious bid to turn the tide. The crowd rallied behind her, every strike met with a wave of cheers. Katana, though, looked like she was in her element. She was calm and agile, slipping punches with head movement that made Bell swing at nothing. Two minutes in, Katana began dismantling the younger fighter with veteran savvy. Her jab split Bell’s guard repeatedly, and she punished the body with thudding kicks that left red welts across Bell’s ribs. Bell tried to wrestle, shooting double legs out of desperation, but Katana’s sprawl was airtight. Each stuffed takedown seemed to sap Bell’s explosiveness, and Katana made her pay on the break with sharp elbows. At the halfway point, a furious exchange brought the arena to its feet. Bell connected with a spinning heel kick that clipped Katana’s jaw, sending a ripple of shock through the crowd. Katana stumbled for a second but immediately steadied, firing back with a brutal four punch combination capped by a knee up the middle. Bell was hurt, retreating to the cage as Katana poured on precise shots, forcing the referee to watch closely. To her credit, Bell’s toughness and heart carried her through. She fired back in the final thirty seconds, winging wild left hands that caught nothing but air as Katana slipped and countered. With seconds remaining, Katana punctuated the fight with a devastating right hand that snapped Bell’s head back, the crowd roaring as the horn ended the bout.
The fighters embraced in mutual respect, but the outcome was clear. Katana’s composure, precision, and tactical mastery outclassed Bell’s raw athleticism. The United Center roared with appreciation, the first fight setting a high bar for the night. Katana raised her arms in triumph, her confidence validated, while Bell absorbed her first taste of defeat.
Winner: PK Katana by Unanimous Decision
Statistics: Maya Bell
Punches 41/128 (32%)
Kicks 22/49 (45%)
Clinch strikes 4/12 (33%)
Takedowns 1/5 (20%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/5 (40%)
Time on the ground 12 s
Statistics: PK Katana
Punches 78/155 (50%)
Kicks 31/58 (53%)
Clinch strikes 16/25 (64%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 0/0 (0%)
Time on the ground 12 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And we are back here live inside the United Center in Chicago for UGP 70! What a crowd tonight, KC. The energy in here just refuses to let up, and hey, look who’s in the house tonight! That right there is the undefeated Featherweight contender out of Lava City, Mida Marray. Currently sitting as the #9-ranked Featherweight, holding a perfect 5-0 professional record, and quickly becoming one of the most talked about prospects in the division.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “You love to see it. Rumor has it she’s heading to France for Boss Fight 57, but for now she’s here supporting her teammate PK Katana, who just aced a massive test with Maya Bell in the opening early prelim kickoff bout just moments ago.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Always a good sign when your teammates show up. Iron sharpens iron, and that Lava City crew, they’re quietly building something special. Stick around folks, we’ve got another big one coming up next. Let’s get you right back to the action.”
ROUND ONE: The atmosphere shifted as the middleweights entered the cage, the United Center buzzing for the clash between the newly ranked Nyles Stephens and the seasoned striker Armando Moretti. Stephens came out orthodox, heavy on the front foot, fists chambered like loaded pistols. Across from him, Moretti worked at range, already chopping at the lead leg with slashing Muay Thai kicks, his eyes calculating. The opening minute was a battle of intent. Stephens pressed forward, looking to crowd Moretti, while Moretti circled, flicking teeps and peppering body kicks. The thud of shin on ribs echoed as Stephens absorbed one, but he grinned and threw a thunderous right hand that narrowly missed. The crowd gasped, already sensing the danger behind his fists. Moretti’s strategy was clear. Wear down Stephens’ base, slow his advance, and force him into exchanges where the kicks could add up. He strung together combinations, snapping a jab before punishing the thigh with another low kick. Stephens, though, was undeterred. By the halfway mark, his rhythm began to click. A jab to the body, overhand upstairs, hooks slamming into Moretti’s guard. A right hand cracked clean across the jaw, and the crowd surged as Moretti staggered back. But Moretti’s adaptability showed. He clinched, firing knees to the midsection, grinding Stephens against the cage. Stephens answered with short hooks and an uppercut inside, refusing to be bullied. The final minute turned into a war of attrition, with Stephens pressing hard and Moretti firing back with leg kicks and body shots, each strike drawing roars from the crowd. The horn sounded on a tense opener. Stephens’ power and pressure had landed the louder moments, but Moretti’s kicks had done visible damage. Both corners knew adjustments were coming.
ROUND TWO: Stephens stormed out of his corner. Gone was the patience. He stalked Moretti, cutting off angles, his jab snapping sharper, his right hand chambered like a hammer waiting to fall. Moretti flicked another body kick, but Stephens slipped just outside and answered with a crushing left hook. The sound of leather on bone reverberated through the United Center, and Moretti’s legs buckled. The crowd erupted, surging to its feet as Stephens swarmed. He trapped Moretti against the fence, unleashing a brutal barrage of a right cross, left hook, right uppercut. Moretti tried to clinch but Stephens ripped a hook to the liver, then a short right upstairs that sent sweat flying under the lights. The thud drew a visceral reaction from the crowd. Moretti, dazed but proud, threw back a desperate knee, but Stephens slipped it, planted his feet, and uncorked a monster overhand right that detonated flush on the chin. Moretti collapsed to the canvas, flat on his back, eyes staring up at the rafters as the referee dove in. The United Center exploded into chaos, the sound rattling through the rafters.
Stephens roared, pounding his chest, the adrenaline of his first ranked victory pouring out of him as his corner rushed the cage. The knockout was emphatic, a statement that Stephens’ fists were as dangerous as advertised. He had proven his number wasn’t a fluke, he was here to stay.
Winner: Nyles Stephens by KO (Punch) at 1:07 Round 2
Statistics: Nyles Stephens
Punches 56/103 (54%)
Kicks 2/6 (33%)
Clinch strikes 11/20 (55%)
Takedowns 0/1 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/3 (67%)
Time on the ground 0 s
Statistics: Armando Moretti
Punches 22/58 (38%)
Kicks 27/39 (69%)
Clinch strikes 9/18 (50%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 1/2 (50%)
Time on the ground 0 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Welcome back, fight fans. We are live inside the United Center for UGP 70, and if you’re just joining us, you’ve missed an incredible night so far. Still plenty more to come, including our massive main event later tonight.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Oh, absolutely, Bodie. And look who we’ve got sitting front and center tonight, that’s the #1-ranked welterweight contender, Robin Kelson!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “The man many believe is next in line for a shot at Byron McCall’s title. You can see him there, laser-focused. No surprise he’s locked in on this next matchup between Connor Bouchard and Jack Donovan. Both potential opponents down the line.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Robin’s always studying. He’s one of those guys who treats every fight like tape study. And I love that he’s here backing his team with Jordan Parker making his welterweight debut later tonight, and of course Serenity Holmes headlining for the bantamweight title in the main event.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Holmes MMA and Wrestling Academy showing up strong tonight. You can feel that team unity, and for Robin, it’s only fueling that championship mindset. All eyes on the welterweight division as we’ve got a key fight coming up next. Let’s get you set for Connor Bouchard versus Jack Donovan.”
ROUND ONE: The opening bell sounded with both men immediately trying to assert their identities. Connor Bouchard, the grappling ace, crept forward with that purposeful BJJ stance. Chin tucked, hands high, fainting level changes. Across from him, Jack Donovan took the center like a matador, light on his feet, peppering with flicking teeps and a sharp jab to keep the Canadian honest. Donovan’s precision striking showed early. A quick one-two snapped Bouchard’s head back, drawing a cheer from the crowd, but Bouchard didn’t panic. He timed Donovan’s third kick, catching it against his chest and driving him toward the fence. Inside the clinch, Bouchard worked knees to the thigh and short elbows, methodically grinding. Donovan defended well, digging underhooks and rotating off the fence, but Bouchard dragged him back, threatening with a trip. For nearly two minutes, it was a grueling battle of positions, Bouchard pressing his weight, Donovan trying to create separation. Finally, Donovan broke free, landing a clean right hand as they disengaged. The momentum shifted as the kickboxer established range again, thudding body kicks, a snapping low kick that echoed in the arena. Still, Bouchard closed strong, bulling Donovan back into the cage in the final thirty seconds and landing a sharp elbow inside. The horn sounded with both men chest to chest, the crowd buzzing after an opening frame that set the tone.
ROUND TWO: Bouchard came out with urgency, knowing Donovan’s comfort zone was at range. He pressed forward behind a stiff jab-cross, diving into the clinch once more. He threatened a single leg, then used the motion to snap Donovan down briefly, though the striker popped right back up. Donovan stayed composed, his fight IQ shining through. Rather than overexerting in the scramble, he patiently worked his way to open space, then lit Bouchard up with a sharp left hook to the body and then a right cross upstairs. Now Donovan began carving him apart. His kicks mixed levels beautifully between calf, ribs, then a high kick that forced Bouchard to shell up. The crowd roared as Donovan stalked forward, landing another crisp one-two. Bouchard’s toughness and conditioning were on display. He absorbed heavy shots, shook his head, and pressed in again. He even managed to tie Donovan up late, dragging him into another grinding clinch, where he sneaked in a couple of hard knees. Donovan’s resilience and cardio edge were becoming clear though. He shrugged off the pressure, circling smoothly and landing another thudding body kick right before the horn. The crowd recognized momentum building for the kickboxer, rising with cheers as Donovan raised his chin defiantly walking back to his corner.
ROUND THREE: The tension spiked as the final round began. Bouchard, understanding he needed to break Donovan’s rhythm, charged in for a takedown attempt. Donovan sprawled beautifully, stuffing it and punishing Bouchard with a knee to the body on the way up. From there, it was the Donovan show. His jab pierced through the guard, setting up a right cross that landed flush. The sound of leather on flesh sent the crowd into a frenzy. Bouchard, showing his grit, kept pressing forward, but his movements were slower now, his reactions dulled from accumulated damage. Donovan exploited it ruthlessly. A thudding body kick bent Bouchard sideways, followed by a crisp uppercut that snapped his head back. The Canadian staggered against the fence, covering up. Donovan poured it on with hooks to the head and knees to the body, a merciless flurry of punches that had the referee leaning in. The roar of the arena peaked as Donovan unleashed one final barrage. A left-right-left combination that buckled Bouchard’s legs and left him slumped against the cage. The referee jumped in, waving it off as Donovan pumped his fists and let out a primal roar.
The crowd rose to its feet, chanting his name, the sense of a contender reborn swelling through the building. Bouchard, battered but proud, nodded in respect as Donovan stood tall, pointing to the title picture once again.
Winner: Jack Donovan by TKO (Punches) at 3:41 Round 3
Statistics: Connor Bouchard
Punches 34/78 (43%)
Kicks 4/9 (44%)
Clinch strikes 22/30 (73%)
Takedowns 2/6 (33%)
GnP strikes 6/12 (50%)
Submissions 0/1 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 4/9 (44%)
Time on the ground 108 s
Statistics: Jack Donovan
Punches 86/155 (55%)
Kicks 41/62 (66%)
Clinch strikes 11/18 (61%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/3 (67%)
Time on the ground 108 s
ROUND ONE: The opening round begins with Eden Reid looking to establish her range immediately. She flicks out her long jab and slaps a couple of probing teep kicks up the middle, forcing Aliyah Marshall to stay on the outside. Reid’s length is as advertised. Every time Marshall steps forward, she’s stung with a snapping jab or a whipping low kick. The crowd reacts as Reid strings together a crisp three-punch combination capped with a right high kick that just grazes Marshall’s guard. Marshall, fighting from the southpaw stance, isn’t panicking though. She feints, stays low, and starts inching inside. Reid, tall and talkative as ever, peppers her opponent with words between strikes, smirking after a clean right hand lands. The banter, though, leaves her open. Midway through the round, Marshall ducks under a looping right and drives her shoulder into Reid’s midsection, blasting her to the canvas with a double leg takedown. The mood shifts. Reid squirms beneath Marshall, posting on elbows and trying to scramble up, but Marshall’s pressure is smothering. She slides to half guard, hammering short elbows to Reid’s ribs and temple. The crowd buzzes as Marshall postures up, slamming down ground and pound that forces Reid to cover up. Still, Reid’s toughness shines. She eats shots, ties Marshall up, and survives until the horn. The first frame ends with Marshall chest-to-chest on top, reminding Reid this isn’t just a striking contest.
ROUND TWO: Reid comes out firing in the second, clearly intent on making a statement. She throws her jab with more snap, mixing in long kicks to Marshall’s thigh and body. The volume starts to add up, and Marshall’s legs show redness from repeated teeps and roundhouses. The fans rally behind the lanky striker as she strings together fluid combinations, her rhythm finding its mark. Yet Marshall stays composed. She times her entry, lowering her level as Reid overcommits to a right cross. Once again, the wrestler muscles Reid to the floor, landing with authority. The thud draws a groan from the crowd. Reid squirms, long limbs flailing, but Marshall is methodical. She traps an arm, slides to side control, and drops a barrage of short punches. Reid bucks and bridges, showing heart, but her high center of gravity betrays her. Marshall repeatedly drags her back down, grinding away precious energy. By the final minute, Reid’s talkative bravado has quieted, her mouth open as she absorbs body shots from the bottom. The round ends with Marshall in mount, raining down punches while Reid shells up and waits for the horn.
ROUND THREE: Heading into the final round, Reid’s corner demands urgency. She needs a finish. She comes out slinging leather, landing a stiff right hand that snaps Marshall’s head back. The crowd roars as Reid presses forward, uncorking a knee up the middle that just misses. For a brief moment, the tide feels like it’s turning. Marshall, though, proves resilient. She absorbs the shot, drops her level once again, and hoists Reid off her feet with a booming slam. The arena shakes as Reid hits the mat, and the energy shifts entirely back to Marshall. From there, it’s textbook control with smashing elbows, heavy shoulder pressure, and steady ground and pound. Reid scrambles and kicks but can’t shake her opponent. The crowd cheers as the final seconds tick away, appreciating the grit on both sides. Reid finishes the fight bloodied and frustrated, pinned beneath Marshall’s weight. When the horn sounds, Marshall stands tall, raising her arms. Reid sits back against the fence, exhausted, knowing her reach and striking weren’t enough to keep the wrestler at bay.
Marshall celebrates with a confident grin, pointing to the canvas as if to mark her territory. Reid, still jawing even in defeat, shrugs it off with a wry smile but knows she has work to do. For Marshall, this victory vaults her up the lightweight ranks, a signal that her wrestling and ground and pound can neutralize even the division’s most dangerous strikers.
Winner: Aliyah Marshall by Unanimous Decision
Statistics: Eden Reid
Punches 48/122 (39%)
Kicks 26/44 (59%)
Clinch Strikes 9/17 (53%)
Takedowns 0/1 (0%)
GnP Strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 1/2 (50%)
Time on the Ground 312 s
Statistics: Aliyah Marshall
Punches 31/64 (48%)
Kicks 11/21 (52%)
Clinch Strikes 7/13 (54%)
Takedowns 6/8 (75%)
GnP Strikes 64/97 (66%)
Submissions 0/1 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 3/4 (75%)
Time on the Ground 312 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Welcome back, folks. We’re live inside the United Center in Chicago for UGP 70, and what a night it’s been so far. If you’re just joining us, buckle up, the action’s only heating up from here.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And check this out, Bodie. Look who we’ve got in the building tonight! That’s Zia Cooke, one of the breakout stars from Siren Pro Wrestling, sitting cageside!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Yeah, big things are happening in that world. Siren Pro Wrestling is set for its debut next month in Las Vegas, and they’ll be crowning their first women’s champion in a gauntlet match. You know Zia’s going to be a name to watch.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “She’s got that mix of athleticism and charisma that just pops off the screen. You love seeing crossover athletes like her show love for MMA.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “From one combat stage to another, the respect runs deep. Great to have her in the house tonight. And now, let’s get it back to the octagon with a top ranked bantamweight tilt between two title challengers, Syn Saetang and Taylor Webb, next!”
ROUND ONE: The opening bell rang and Saetang wasted no time staking her ground at center cage, bouncing lightly on her toes, orthodox stance tight, chin tucked. She snapped a teep into Webb’s midsection before following with a crisp one-two, her Muay Thai polish immediately apparent. Webb, southpaw and bullish in demeanor, wasn’t discouraged. She stalked forward, heavy left hand cocked, ready to return fire. The first exchange lit up the crowd: Saetang carved with a clean right cross, Webb answered with a looping left hook that wobbled Saetang for half a step. Saetang’s skill edge showed in the variety of her offense. Slashing leg kicks, darting elbows in tight, and fluid pivots to avoid Webb’s power shots, but Webb’s chin held up, and more importantly, her resolve didn’t waver. Every time Saetang landed clean, Webb returned fire with something heavy, swinging hooks or stiff straights that forced the Thai striker to respect her grit. Midway through, Webb closed distance behind a flurry and bullied Saetang to the fence. Saetang reversed position with a collar tie, driving knees into the ribs and peppering short uppercuts that split Webb’s guard. However, the wrestler showed toughness, muscling her way out and exploding with a winging left hand that drew roars from the crowd as Saetang’s head snapped back. The final minute was pure chaos. Both women planted and traded in the pocket, Saetang finding her mark with sharper technique, Webb landing fewer but heavier. When the horn sounded, Saetang raised her arms as if to claim control, but Webb grinned wide through a reddened cheek, shaking her head as if to say, “I’m still here.”
ROUND TWO: The second frame began with Saetang looking to regain her rhythm, jabbing and chopping at Webb’s lead leg, but Webb had adjusted. Her hands were looser, her strikes less about landing clean and more about forcing Saetang into exchanges. Midway in, it worked. A reckless right kick from Saetang gave Webb the opening she craved. She ducked low and detonated a double leg takedown, blasting through the hips and slamming Saetang hard to the mat. The shift in momentum was instant. Webb pressed chest to chest, flattening Saetang, then postured up to unleash her calling card, savage ground and pound. Hammerfists rained down, heavy elbows split guard, and each impact thudded loud enough to make the first rows wince. Saetang squirmed, attempted a shrimp, even threw up a desperate overhook for a guillotine, but Webb’s pressure was suffocating. She slid to half guard, pinned Saetang’s far arm, and began pounding away with merciless intent. The referee hovered as Saetang turtled under fire. Thirty seconds left, and Webb smelled blood. She unleashed a storm of short, piston-like lefts and clubbing right hands. Saetang’s body went limp under the barrage, forcing the stoppage.
Webb roared as she leapt to her feet, pounding her chest and pointing down at the canvas, as if to remind everyone that this is her world when it hits the mat. Saetang sat against the fence, bruised but conscious, shaking her head in disappointment. The crowd gave both warriors their due, but the message was clear. Taylor Webb had announced herself as a top Bantamweight contender once again, just as she promised.
Winner: Taylor Webb by TKO (GnP) at 4:33 Round 2
Statistics: Syn Saetang
Punches 42/88 (47%)
Kicks 19/31 (61%)
Clinch strikes 11/17 (65%)
Takedowns 0/1 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 3/5 (60%)
Time on the ground 112 s
Statistics: Taylor Webb
Punches 29/67 (43%)
Kicks 6/13 (46%)
Clinch strikes 7/14 (50%)
Takedowns 4/6 (67%)
GnP strikes 36/54 (67%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/4 (50%)
Time on the ground 112 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “We are back inside the sold out United Center. It’s been a wild night of action here at UGP 70, and the energy in this building just keeps climbing.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Check it out, Bodie, we’ve got Amber Mansley in the house tonight! A reigning world champion in pro wrestling, and someone who’s definitely made headlines lately.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “No doubt about it. She’s been vocal about her fandom with the Union GP experience, and you can see her here showing support, or maybe curiosity, for Serenity Holmes, who she’s had a bit of a rocky history with.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Yeah, those two trained together once upon a time and, well… let’s just say things didn’t exactly end with a handshake. But credit to Amber, she’s here cageside, getting a firsthand look at what Serenity brings to the table tonight.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “It’s always interesting when worlds collide like this. You never know where that crossover energy might lead. But for now, the focus shifts back to the cage, our next bout is set to get underway. It’s the Featured Prelim between former featherweight title challenger Carter Vaughn and Chicago’s homegrown Tristano D’Amico!”
ROUND ONE: The United Center crowd roars as Chicago’s own Tristano D’Amico bounces out southpaw, loose and confident, flicking jabs and probing low kicks. Carter Vaughn, calm and measured, circles orthodox, his eyes fixed on the hips, not the hands. Vaughn wastes little time testing his entries, pawing with a jab just enough to draw D’Amico’s counter left, then ducking under for a level change. The first takedown attempt gets stuffed as D’Amico sprawls hard, and the arena erupts. Vaughn resets, unfazed, knowing his path to victory lies in persistence. D’Amico’s kickboxing is crisp early, mixing teep kicks to keep Vaughn at bay with sharp one-two combinations. A whipping left kick slaps against Vaughn’s ribs, eliciting a wince. Still, Vaughn inches forward, patient as ever. Midway through the round, he times a low kick perfectly, scooping the leg and running D’Amico to the canvas. The cheers dim into nervous murmurs as Vaughn goes to work on top. From half guard, Vaughn’s methodical pressure shines. He peppers short elbows, looking to soften the defenses. D’Amico shows urgency, framing and shrimping, but Vaughn’s sticky control prevents escapes. With under a minute left, Vaughn isolates an arm, teasing a kimura, forcing D’Amico to defend instead of attack. The horn sounds with Vaughn firmly on top, the local crowd restless as their favorite spent much of the frame pinned.
ROUND TWO: D’Amico comes out more aggressive, ripping combinations to the body and head. His left straight stuns Vaughn briefly, and the crowd explodes as he follows with a chopping right hook that forces Vaughn to clinch. Against the fence, D’Amico muscles elbows inside, but Vaughn stays glued, adjusting levels until he finally drags the fight back down. The second round becomes a grappling clinic. Vaughn advances steadily, transitioning to side control and threatening an arm triangle choke. D’Amico bucks explosively, bridging with all his strength, but Vaughn’s top pressure smothers every scramble. Ground and pound isn’t overwhelming, but it’s consistent. Short punches and elbows force D’Amico to cover up. Vaughn nearly secures mount in the final thirty seconds, the boos rising from the Chicago faithful as D’Amico is stuck defending. It’s another round where Vaughn’s grappling IQ dictates the story.
ROUND THREE: The third begins with urgency from D’Amico, knowing he’s likely behind. Vaughn again looks for the takedown, dipping inside behind a jab. As he presses forward, D’Amico’s patience pays off. He feints low, draws Vaughn’s guard down, then whips a brutal left high kick over the top. It lands flush across Vaughn’s temple. The crowd detonates. Vaughn crumples to the canvas, eyes glassy. D’Amico pounces, unloading a barrage of unanswered hammerfists and hooks. Vaughn tries to cover but his arms aren’t responding, the shot took everything out of him. The referee dives in at just forty-five seconds of the round, waving it off.
The arena erupts in pandemonium. Chicago has its hero. D’Amico climbs the cage, arms wide, basking in the adulation as Vaughn sits stunned, checked over by doctors. For two rounds, Vaughn controlled with suffocating grappling, but in this sport, it only takes one perfect strike. Tristano D’Amico delivered it, notching the biggest win of his career and shaking up the Featherweight ranks in front of his hometown faithful.
Winner: Tristano D’Amico by KO (High Kick) at 0:45 Round 3
Statistics: Carter Vaughn
Punches 18/32 (56%)
Kicks 1/2 (50%)
Clinch strikes 4/7 (57%)
Takedowns 4/7 (57%)
GnP strikes 21/32 (66%)
Submissions 2/4 (50%)
Clinch Attempts 3/4 (75%)
Time on the ground 296 s
Statistics: Tristano D’Amico
Punches 31/52 (59%)
Kicks 15/26 (58%)
Clinch strikes 6/11 (55%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP strikes 4/6 (66%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/2 (100%)
Time on the ground 296 s
The feed fades in from darkness, and the roar of the crowd rises like a tidal wave. The camera opens with a sweeping aerial view of Chicago’s United Center, framed against the glittering lights of the city that never seems to sleep. The skyline glows behind it. The Willis Tower piercing the night sky, the John Hancock gleaming, and the reflections of Lake Michigan catching the last bits of sunset. There’s a sense that the city itself is alive, buzzing in anticipation of the battles about to unfold inside.
A high tech drone zips into frame, slicing through the night sky with precision. It arcs past several iconic Chicago marquees, swoops around the streets, catching glimpses of fans tailgating and gathering in Union GP apparel, their cheers audible even above the soundtrack of the city. As it dives toward the arena entrance, the scale of the spectacle becomes clear. Towering LED screens display fighter highlights, frozen in moments of triumph and agony. Pyrotechnics are dispersed like lightning. A cascade of lights pulses in rhythm with the heart pounding, bass heavy music echoing into the streets.
The drone sweeps over the crowd, a sea of faces painted, banners waving, fists punching the air. You can almost feel their excitement as it hovers above the floor. Chicagoans here for their sport, their city, and now, the fighters who are about to write the next chapter of UGP history. Then, the arena erupts. Pyrotechnics flare, lights snap across the rafters, and the roar becomes a living, breathing force. A final burst of fire and brilliance lights the stage, and for a moment, everything is perfect chaos. As the spectacle subsides, the camera pops up tonight’s poster on screen, the seven year anniversary card in all its glory.
The drone arcs gracefully toward the cageside area, swooping past the press box, the cageside fans, the photographers leaning into their lenses. It lands at the commentary desk, where Bodie Sullivan and Kayla Chapman are already in position, calm and poised amid the storm of emotion, ready to welcome the world to a night of high stakes, high drama, and fights that will be talked about for years.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Ladies and gentlemen, fight fans around the world, we are LIVE exclusively on the Battleground Network here at the sold out United Center in Chicago, Illinois — home of Union GP tonight — and the octagon is officially open for business for UGP 70: KANE vs HOLMES! Thank you all so much for being with us on this special anniversary evening. I’m Bodie Sullivan, honored as always to call the action, alongside the gold standard in MMA media, Kayla Chapman. KC, tonight Union Grand Prix celebrates seven years of unforgettable moments, unforgettable champions, and unforgettable fights. No better place to do it than right here in Chicago. A fight city through and through, steeped in combat sports history, ready once again to add another chapter to the books.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Before we jump into the Main Card, Bodie, how about those prelims? We had everything you could ask for. Promising prospects showing flashes of greatness, veterans digging deep to prove they still belong, and some jaw-dropping finishes that had this Chicago crowd on their feet. You could feel the energy building with every fight, and that’s the magic of Union GP. For seven years, this promotion has been about elevating new stars while honoring the legends, and tonight was a perfect reminder of why fans keep coming back. It’s history unfolding in real time, and you just can’t look away.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Couldn’t agree more, KC. Now we turn the page to the main card, and we open with a future Hall of Famer entering uncharted waters. Jordan Parker, the former three-time lightweight champion, makes his welterweight debut here tonight. A decorated submission specialist. Two-time Submission of the Year winner, eight career subs inside a Union GP cage. His Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu has long been considered among the best in the world, but the question tonight is obvious. How does that world class technique hold up when you’re giving away height, reach, and natural size to bigger, stronger welterweights?”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And Bodie, that’s exactly the kind of challenge Ari Rosenberg represents. This is not going to be a soft landing for Jordan Parker at welterweight. At 6’1”, Rosenberg looks every bit the part of a natural welterweight, and that size advantage is real, especially against a 5’7” frame like Parker’s. But it’s not just the physicality. Rosenberg’s wrestling and Sambo background are tailor made for this matchup. He excels at staying heavy on top, controlling hips, and suffocating dangerous guards, and that’s exactly the kind of blueprint you need to try to neutralize Parker’s jiu-jitsu. The flip side, though, is Parker’s opportunism. He doesn’t need much space to snatch a neck or isolate a limb. So for Rosenberg, it’s about discipline and pressure. For Parker, it’s about creating chaos in those small openings. That dynamic makes this such a fascinating opening fight on the main card.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “From there, we move to the featherweight division, and this one has all the makings of a classic striker versus grappler matchup. Isabel Azevedo, the inaugural featherweight champion, now on the comeback trail with her eyes on another title run. She is the submission queen of Union GP, holding the all-time record with ten subs in Union GP. A Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt with a knack for chaining transitions together, she’s one of those fighters who only needs one scramble, one mistake from her opponent, to completely change the complexion of a fight.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “On the flip side, Bodie, Danielle Fontaine is the definition of a pressure striker. Eighteen wins already on her résumé, and she’s been perfect so far in Union GP at 3-0. What jumps out about her is not just the knockout power, though she has plenty of it, but the way she applies it. She forces you to fight off your back foot, she crowds you, she makes every exchange exhausting. And it’s not reckless pressure either. She’s calculated, she knows how to cut angles, and her cardio allows her to sustain that pace longer than most featherweights can handle. Fontaine’s been campaigning for a title shot. If she can march through someone as savvy and proven as Isabel Azevedo, that’s the kind of performance that might just force the matchmakers’ hands.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Then it’s on to the first of two co-main events, and what a story here. The middleweight champion, Zion Momo’a, makes the walk just weeks removed from a grueling first title defense at UGP 69. This is a man whose name has become synonymous with all-action fights. No one in Union GP history has earned more Fight of the Night bonuses than Zion Momo’a. He was the first notable scouted fighter by Dante Reed, built his legend through epic rivalries, and now sits atop the division that has historically been the most competitive and exciting since the company’s inception. And yet tonight, he does it again in hostile territory, coming into Chicago to defend his belt against a hometown favorite. It’s the kind of scenario that has defined his career. High stakes, high pressure, and almost always high drama. Just the way he likes it!”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And hostile it will be, because Kristophe Cerulli is Chicago born and raised. This is a dream scenario for Cerulli. Fighting for a world title in front of his hometown crowd. For a fighter, this is the kind of night you dream about. Stylistically, he brings an elusive, movement-heavy kickboxing game. Lots of lateral footwork, sharp counters, and the ability to frustrate opponents by never staying in one place for long. He’s already proven he belongs at this level with wins over top Title Challengers like Venus Sagapolutele and Reggie James, not to mention the way he handled Deebo Briggs. But tonight, he has the chance to etch his name into Union GP history, and if he can dethrone Zion Momo’a here in Chicago, you can only imagine the eruption inside the United Center.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “After that, the lightweight title is on the line, and this one has all the makings of a legacy defining night. Sadie Williams, two-time Union GP lightweight champion, already one of the most decorated fighters in promotion history, steps back into the cage looking to extend her reign. Her ground game is world-class, six submission victories inside Union GP alone, and she’s shown time and time again the ability to dictate the pace of a fight from the mat. But tonight isn’t just another defense. Every opponent, every punch, every scramble adds another chapter to a career that’s already legendary. Williams is hunting for her next statement win, and the whole lightweight division is watching.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Let’s not sugar coat it. Sadie Williams is going to have her hands full, because Marcela Vargas is a completely different animal. She’s undefeated in Union GP at 4-0-1, and she fights with a level of aggression that forces you to constantly react. Her Muay Thai is brutal with her sharp knees to the body, elbows that cut and open space, and kicks that keep opponents off balance. And don’t overlook her grappling either. Her BJJ is solid enough that she can threaten submissions if the fight hits the mat. Stylistically, this is fascinating. Williams is measured, precise, methodical, looking to control the fight and pick her shots. Vargas is chaotic, relentless, and thrives in high pressure exchanges. It’s a classic matchup of control versus chaos, precision versus unbridled aggression, and we’re about to find out which style asserts itself first.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And then finally, ladies and gentlemen, we reach the crown jewel of UGP 70. The fight in which this card was built around, the bantamweight championship main event. Marissa Kane, a multi-sport champion, one of the most decorated fighters in the history of MMA. She’s competed at the very highest level in MMA, pro wrestling, and boxing, and tonight she steps back into the cage to defend her title in a fight that could define her legacy even further. Kane is the complete package. Technical striking, world class grappling, devastating power, and the fight IQ to dismantle even the most dangerous challengers. But every legend faces a test, and Serenity Holmes is here tonight to push Kane to her limits. This is history in the making.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And Bodie, don’t underestimate Serenity Holmes. At just 9-2, she’s already faced the pressure of a title fight and thrived, and she’s a dual-sport athlete in MMA and pro wrestling. So she’s got the toughness, athleticism, and ring awareness that comes from performing under pressure in front of a crowd. Holmes is fast, aggressive, and fearless. She’ll mix up her striking and takedown attempts, constantly testing Kane’s timing and reactions. This isn’t just about physical skill, it’s about poise, composure, and who can handle the moment. Holmes has a chip on her shoulder, a chance to shock the world, and the energy in Chicago tonight could fuel her every step. If she brings the right mix of chaos and precision, this could be the upset of the year.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “We’ll be with you every step of the way, breaking down the action and providing you with the best coverage from start to finish. The United Center is packed to the rafters with 23,000 plus ready to witness history! So, without further ado, let’s toss it over to our very own hype man, the mouthpiece of MMA, Mike Dempsey, who’s standing by, ready to get things started. Ladies and gentlemen…”
“IT’S BOUT TIME!”
ROUND ONE: The United Center is electric as the two men square up. Ari Rosenberg towers with his thick wrestler’s frame, stone faced and braced for a grind, while Jordan Parker bounces light on his feet. From the opening, the contrast is stark. Rosenberg plods forward behind heavy hands, looking to crash into a clinch, while Parker snaps jabs and leg kicks in quick bursts, never staying still long enough to get pinned. Rosenberg finally corrals him against the fence and muscles a takedown with sheer strength, landing in half guard. The crowd buzzes as he rains down short, grinding elbows, not devastating but suffocating, the kind of attrition that chips away. Parker’s composure shows as he eats the shots, frames with his arms, and looks to create space for a scramble. For every Rosenberg hammerfist, Parker slips in a hip escape or underhook attempt. The final minute sees Rosenberg posture up for heavier ground and pound, but Parker’s speed creates a frantic scramble. He bursts back to his feet, peppering Rosenberg with a flurry of jabs and a teep to the body that draws a roar from the Chicago crowd. Round one closes with Rosenberg landing the stronger damage, but Parker reminding everyone that his speed can turn any sequence.
ROUND TWO: The second round begins with Parker upping his volume. He digs to the body with a crisp one-two and circles out before Rosenberg can clinch. The pace begins to expose Rosenberg’s plodding footwork. He’s cutting angles slower now, his arms dropping just slightly from the constant movement. Still, the wrestler finds his moment midway through, ducking under a looping right and hoisting Parker off the mat for a thunderous slam. The cage rattles. On the mat, Rosenberg looks for his bread and butter of heavy hips and grinding elbows. Parker grimaces but stays active, trapping a wrist and momentarily threatening a triangle before Rosenberg shrugs it off. The clock ticks with Rosenberg on top, but the damage isn’t piling up. Instead, it’s Parker’s survival instincts and short bursts of offense that keep the crowd leaning in. With under a minute left, Parker explodes to his feet again, fueled by chants. He snaps a head kick that partially lands and follows with a blitz of straight punches, forcing Rosenberg to turtle up against the fence. The round ends with Rosenberg wearing a cut on his brow and Parker finally planting his flag.
ROUND THREE: By the third round, Rosenberg is breathing harder, his shots slower to set up. Parker, by contrast, seems freshly charged, his motor revving higher. He darts in and out, stinging Rosenberg with body shots that draw groans from the crowd with every thud. Rosenberg manages another takedown two minutes in, but this time Parker welcomes the floor. The chess match unfolds. Rosenberg smothers from half guard, pressing his weight, but Parker works his butterfly hooks, creating a pocket of space. A scramble sees Parker snake around to Rosenberg’s back in a flash. The United Center erupts as he threads his arm under the chin. Rosenberg, sweaty and desperate, claws at the grip, but Parker adjusts with surgical precision, tightening the rear naked choke. The tap comes after a few grueling seconds, and the arena detonates. Parker leaps to his feet, emotion pouring out as he pounds his chest, debuting in a new weight class with a statement. Rosenberg sits on his knees, shaking his head, the bigger man undone by pace and persistence.
The aftermath is pure theater. Parker basks in the spotlight, a triumphant comeback that reignites his career, while Rosenberg looks stunned, realizing brute strength wasn’t enough against relentless speed and cardio. For the rest of the division, Parker’s win plants a dangerous wildcard into the welterweight field, and shouldn’t be taken lightly.
Winner: Jordan Parker by Submission (RNC) at 3:27 Round 3
Statistics: Ari Rosenberg
Punches 45/78 (58%)
Kicks 2/5 (40%)
Clinch strikes 8/12 (67%)
Takedowns 3/6 (50%)
GnP strikes 22/40 (55%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 6/8 (75%)
Time on the ground 228 s
Statistics: Jordan Parker
Punches 63/112 (56%)
Kicks 6/14 (43%)
Clinch strikes 5/10 (50%)
Takedowns 2/5 (40%)
GnP strikes 12/25 (48%)
Submissions 1/1 (100%)
Clinch Attempts 3/5 (60%)
Time on the ground 228 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “We are back live inside the iconic United Center here in Chicago and what a night it’s been so far. And as always, some big names in the building for UGP 70.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Oh, absolutely. We’ve got the reigning Featherweight Champion, Verona Jimenez, soaking in the atmosphere tonight!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Fresh off the huge announcement this week. Verona will headline UGP 71 in Madrid, Spain, taking on none other than the former bantamweight champ and current #1-ranked pound-for-pound fighter, Victoria Marshall. That’s one of the most anticipated matchups of the year.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And I love seeing her here tonight, staying close to the action, supporting her Holmes MMA and Wrestling Academy teammates. Jordan Parker already got the job done earlier in his welterweight debut, and now she’s here cheering on Serenity Holmes in our main event later tonight.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “No question. Verona Jimenez is locked in, and that showdown with Victoria Marshall in Madrid is going to be something special. But up next, we’ve got another pivotal bout coming your way in the featherweight division. One that Verona Jimenez will be paying very close attention to. It’s former featherweight champion and #1-ranked Isabel Azevedo taking on #2-ranked Danielle Fontaine. Stay tuned!”
ROUND ONE: The roar of the United Center echoes as two of the featherweight division’s most dangerous women take center stage. Isabel Azevedo, the former inaugural champion draped in composure, comes forward in her orthodox stance, chin tucked, eyes locked. Danielle Fontaine, the slightly younger powerhouse, brims with nervous energy, bouncing lightly on her toes before slamming the first jab downrange. From the opening seconds, Fontaine dictates pace with volume. Her jab-cross finds rhythm, and she punctuates combinations with vicious low kicks that echo across the arena. Azevedo absorbs them with minimal reaction, her poker face betraying nothing, but each strike sets a foundation for Fontaine’s pressure. Halfway through the round, the crowd gasps as Fontaine steps in with a crushing right cross that snaps Azevedo’s head back. Isabel circles, gloves tight, and answers with a stiff jab-hook of her own, a reminder of her underrated boxing. Azevedo uses that jab to disguise level changes, threatening a shot that keeps Fontaine cautious. With thirty seconds left in the round, Azevedo times a lazy kick, level changes deep, and runs Fontaine to the fence with a powerful double leg. The crowd erupts. Fontaine scrambles to her base, posting on her elbow, but Azevedo drapes heavy from top half guard, pinning her until the horn. The round closes with Azevedo whispering control, Fontaine flexing frustration.
ROUND TWO: The second frame begins with Fontaine pressing forward, determined not to be backed into grappling exchanges. She unleashes combinations, jab-hook-leg kick-then a step-in knee, forcing Azevedo backward. The volume stirs the crowd, and for a moment it looks like Fontaine’s pressure is breaking through until Azevedo adapts. She slips a looping right and counters clean with a jab-cross-hook that earns Fontaine’s respect. The strike exchange slows, and Azevedo pounces. Ducking under a wide left hook, she shoots deep, clasping her hands around Fontaine’s hips. The slam rattles the cage floor. On the mat, Fontaine’s strength buys her precious seconds, muscling her way to butterfly guard, framing with elbows, but Azevedo’s patience is suffocating. She peppers with short punches, forcing Fontaine to cover, then methodically advances to side control. Every elbow drop elicits a chorus of “oohs” from the crowd. Fontaine bucks, refusing to wilt, but by round’s end, it’s Azevedo on top, dictating. Fontaine walks back to her corner breathing harder, her arms heavy, the toll of grappling is evident.
ROUND THREE: The final round opens to a thunderous atmosphere with the crowd sensing the fight is at a tipping point. Fontaine knows she must reclaim momentum and charges forward with reckless urgency, ripping a right hook-left kick combination. It lands flush, sending sweat flying from Azevedo’s brow. The crowd explodes, but Isabel’s chin holds, and instead of retreating, she bites down and shoots low. Timing is perfect. Fontaine sprawls hard, but fatigue betrays her legs. Azevedo drags her into the canvas storm once more. From there, it’s a masterclass in patience. Azevedo flattens Fontaine in half guard, wrist controls her, then gradually inches to leg entanglement. Fontaine senses danger, hammering short punches to Azevedo’s ribs, but Isabel stays calm, adjusting grip, twisting at the knee. The crowd rises to its feet, sensing the inevitable. Fontaine thrashes violently, her warrior spirit unwilling to concede, until the torque of a heel hook rips through her defenses. With a grimace, Fontaine taps. The arena detonates. Azevedo releases instantly, surging to her feet with arms raised, emotion flashing across her stoic face. Fontaine, dejected yet defiant, sits up while clutching her knee, receiving a respectful embrace from her conqueror.
The crowd drowns the United Center with cheers, the former champion standing tall once again. Azevedo’s technical brilliance and resilience re-establish her as the division’s gatekeeper of greatness, while Fontaine’s raw aggression proves she belongs at the sport’s pinnacle. The featherweight landscape just became even more dangerous.
Winner: Isabel Azevedo by Submission (Leg Lock) at 2:39 Round 3
Statistics: Isabel Azevedo
Punches 36/60 (60%)
Kicks 8/14 (57%)
Clinch Strikes 6/10 (60%)
Takedowns 4/6 (67%)
GnP Strikes 25/38 (66%)
Submissions 2/3 (67%)
Clinch Attempts 3/5 (60%)
Time on the ground 198 s
Statistics: Danielle Fontaine
Punches 58/102 (56%)
Kicks 24/38 (63%)
Clinch Strikes 10/16 (63%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP Strikes 5/9 (56%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 2/4 (50%)
Time on the ground 198 s
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Welcome back to Chicago, everyone! UGP 70 rolls on inside a packed United Center. What a night of fights we’ve had, and plenty more still to come.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And take a look at who’s in the house tonight, Bodie, middleweight contender Mason Lambert soaking up the action from cageside!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Mason earned a ton of respect in his last outing. He went toe-to-toe with the former champion Alexander Sokolov in what was an absolute thriller. Took a big risk stepping up that high in the rankings, and even in defeat, really cemented himself as a name to watch in that division.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “No doubt. He’s got that fighter’s spirit, always chasing greatness. And you can tell he’s locked in tonight, paying close attention to this next one between Zion Momo’a and Chicago’s own Kristophe Cerulli. You can almost see it. Mason’s visualizing that moment for himself one day.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And as always, here supporting his Holmes MMA and Wrestling Academy teammates, Jordan Parker and Serenity Holmes. Great to see that team spirit on display. Alright folks, middleweight gold is on the line next, don’t go anywhere!”
The tunnel hums with a low, pulsing vibration, a mix of bass from the speakers and the roars of a restless crowd just beyond the curtain. Kristophe Cerulli rolls his shoulders once, twice, the leather of his gloves creaking under the tension. He can taste the metallic tang of his mouthguard. The air is heavy with fog machines pumping out thick, ghostly clouds that swallow the floor around his ankles. Somewhere above, a single red light flickers like a heartbeat.
Then the beat drops.
♫
I CAN FEEL YOU, I CAN HEAR YOU, HOWLING IN MY BONES
THERE’S AN EVIL LURKING IN THE DARK
(THERE’S AN EVIL LURKIN’ IN THE DARK)
EVER SHIFTING, SKIN IS RIPPING, AS YOU TAKE CONTROL
I CAN’T TELL WHERE YOU END AND WHERE I START
(THERE’S AN EVIL LURKIN’ IN THE DARK)
♫
“Werewolf” by Motionless in White erupts through the speakers, all snarling guitars and feral screams. The crowd explodes. It’s Chicago, his city, and tonight, they sound like they’d burn the building down for him. He steps out of the tunnel and into the blinding strobe of white and crimson light, smoke swirling around him as if the arena itself were exhaling fire. Pyro bursts to either side, showering gold sparks as he raises his chin to the rafters.
He starts his walk. Slow at first. Each step measured. The stage lights ripple across his shoulders, the ground trembling from the roar of his name. The closer he gets to the cage, the louder it gets. The chants, the pounding on barricades, the city rising for its son.
Halfway down the aisle, he reaches out, slapping a few outstretched hands. Faces blur past. Strangers, but tonight they all feel like family. His cornermen trail behind, barking reminders, but he barely hears them. It’s all tunnel vision now. The cage looms ahead, lit like a shrine.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Folks, we have finally reached the championship block of the card tonight. Listen to this crowd, KC, the United Center absolutely erupts for their hometown hero, Kristophe Cerulli! You can feel the pride radiating through this arena as the #2-ranked middleweight contender makes his walk to the cage.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Bodie, this is one of those walkouts that gives you chills. Cerulli’s fighting in front of his people, and you can tell he’s feeding off that energy. He’s an agile, elusive kickboxer with a flair for timing and movement. A guy who can frustrate opponents with his rhythm, then explode with precision when they least expect it.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And what’s made him so compelling in this division is how quickly he’s climbed the ranks. He’s got wins over former title challengers like Venus Sagapolutele and Reggie James, two big wins that really cemented his spot here tonight. He’s battled through killers to get this shot.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “It’s been a steady evolution, too. When he first came into Union GP, he was all flash and footwork. Now he’s rounding things out with better composure, improved grappling defense, and smarter shot selection. You can see he’s starting to mature into a complete fighter.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And this fight has taken on a little more edge than expected. What began as mutual respect between Cerulli and Zion Momo’a turned personal in the final days. Some heated words were exchanged, and now, there’s genuine tension.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Yeah, and that can go one of two ways. Either the emotions boil over, or it becomes the fuel that sharpens his focus. For Cerulli, especially here in Chicago, this isn’t just about a belt, it’s about legacy, pride, and proving he belongs among the very best.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “The lights have never been brighter, the stakes never higher for this twenty year old prodigy. We’re about to find out how Cerulli’s homecoming ends, but one thing’s for sure, he’s walking into this cage ready to make it unforgettable.”
At the steps, Cerulli turns to face the men who helped sharpen his edges. One by one, they embrace. Tight, quick, wordless. They know what this means. Then the official steps forward, running fingers over his gloves, waistband, mouthguard. Kristophe stands still, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his jaw. The check passes. The ref pats his shoulder. It’s time.
He turns back toward the crowd, this ocean of light and noise, and points. A single, defiant gesture. Then he pounds his chest twice, hard enough to echo. The response is volcanic.
He spins back, jogs up the steps, wipes his feet, and ducks inside. First step on the canvas, Chicago roars.
The tunnel is dim and cold, the kind of darkness entrenched with bad intentions. Zion Momo’a stands in it, head bowed, gloves hanging loose by his sides. The muffled hum of the arena leaks in through the curtain, a distant storm waiting to break. He inhales once, slow and steady, the smell of sweat and smoke filling his lungs. When his eyes lift, the only light comes from the faint glow at the tunnel’s mouth, an invitation to war.
Then the first beat hits.
♫
STAMATTINA MI SONO ALZATO
O BELLA CIAO, BELLA CIAO, BELLA CIAO, CIAO, CIAO
STAMATTINA MI SONO ALZATO
E HO TROVATO L’INVASOR-SOR-SOR
O PARTIGIANO
♫
“BE11A CIAO” by Hopsin rumbles through the sound system, low and ominous, each line dragging across the speakers like a blade being drawn. The fog thickens around his feet. A pulse of strobe light flares across the tunnel. Then another. The beat picks up, and the curtain parts.
Zion steps through.
The arena lights flash to life, bursts cutting through the haze. The crowd surges in a single roar. It’s not home turf tonight, but even in hostile territory, the people know greatness when they see it. Some cheer, some clap slowly, others just stand, arms crossed, but all eyes are on him. Zion doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. He just keeps walking. Calm. Collected. Ice in his veins.
Every step is deliberate, almost ceremonial. The lights chase him down the aisle, smoke swirling at his calves. He moves through it unhurried as a man who’s been here a hundred times, maybe a thousand in his mind. The song booms above him, that grim anthem fitting for a soldier walking into his last stand.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And now, here comes the undisputed middleweight champion, Zion Momo’a, making that long, deliberate walk to the cage. Just a few weeks removed from a grueling title defense at UGP 69, and already back under the lights for another five round war. That tells you everything about this man’s mindset.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Yeah, Bodie, Zion is a fighter’s fighter. He doesn’t shy away from challenges, he runs toward them. You think about the quick turnaround, the miles on that body, the names he’s gone toe-to-toe with… Travis Decker, Robert Guilliman, CC Flynn… this guy’s résumé is pure championship caliber.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And he’s been that way since day one. Remember, he was scouted by Dante Reed back at a regional charity show and made his Union GP debut all the way back at UGP 11. Since then, he’s become one of the sport’s most respected names, not just because of the wins, but because of the wars. Nobody has earned more Fight of the Night bonuses in Union GP history.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “He’s got that perfect blend of poise and punishment. You look at the way he carries himself. Calm, measured, almost surgical, but once the fight begins, it’s controlled chaos. He’ll pick you apart, he’ll walk you down, and if you make one mistake, he’ll end it right there.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And as we mentioned a bit ago, KC, there’s a little extra venom in this one with the way the tension boiled over between these two.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “You can feel it in his walk, too. There’s no smile, no showmanship, just that laser focus. He knows he’s in enemy territory here in Chicago, but that crowd reaction tells you all you need to know. Even on the road, Zion Momo’a commands respect.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Absolutely. The calm assassin. The man who thrives in the fire. Tonight, he’s looking to silence the hometown roar and add another name to his incredible legacy.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And if there’s anyone built for that kind of pressure, it’s Zion Momo’a. Every time he walks into that cage, you just know something special’s about to happen.”
Halfway down, Zion Momo’a pauses to lock eyes with his cornermen. No words. Just nods. They fall in behind him, silent sentinels. He reaches the cage steps, and the world tightens. The noise fades into a low hum. The official steps forward, skimming across tape and leather. Quick inspection. No issues. A pat on the back.
Zion doesn’t go in yet.
He drops to one knee right before the door. The fog drifts past him, curling around his bowed head. Lips move in a short, quiet prayer, words only he and whatever higher power he believes in can hear. When he’s done, he exhales, touches his chest once, and stands.
Then he climbs the steps.
A final flash of light blinds the crowd as he ducks through the door. The steel clicks shut behind him with that familiar clang.
He takes his first step onto the canvas. Calm, unshaken. The Buzzsaw has arrived.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first Double Feature Co-Main Event of the evening! Sanctioned by the Illinois State Athletic Commission, our three judges scoring this contest at cageside are Maggie Flynn, Eddie Serrano, and Frank Marcelli, and when the action begins, our referee in charge in the octagon is Tommy McBride. AND NOW, live from the sold out United Center in Chicago, Illinois, streaming exclusively on the Battleground Network…”
IT’S TIME!
MIKE DEMPSEY: “The following contest is scheduled for five rounds and it is for the undisputed Union Grand Prix Middleweight Championship! Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, a Kickboxer holding a professional mixed martial arts record of fifteen wins, two losses. He stands 6’3” tall, and weighing in at 185 pounds. He is from Chicago, Illinois, fighting out of Chicago MMA — presenting the number two ranked Middleweight Contender in the World, “The Bull” Kristophe Cerulli!”
As the lights dim and the spotlight circles back to the center, Kristophe Cerulli paces along the perimeter of the cage, his gloves tapping rhythmically against the chainlink. His chest rises and falls heavy with adrenaline, breath steaming under the lights. When his name is called, he throws his arms wide, pointing out toward the Chicago faithful and the United Center answers in a wave of cheers. He pounds his chest twice, lips curling into a smirk as he nods to the crowd. Then he turns back toward the center, eyes sharp, shoulders loose, a hometown predator ready to hunt.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “And his opponent, fighting out of the red corner, a Kickboxer holding a professional mixed martial arts record of twenty wins, four losses, one draw. He stands 6’ tall, and weighing in at 185 pounds. He is from Los Angeles, California, fighting out of the Hit Squad — presenting THE REIGNING, DEFENDING, UNDISPUTED Union Grand Prix Middleweight Champion of the World, “The Buzzsaw” Zion Momo’a!”
Across the cage, Zion Momo’a stands still. Not a word. Not a twitch. Just the slow, measured breathing of a veteran who’s been here before. Under the lights, under pressure, under fire. Mike Dempsey’s voice booms his name, and Zion simply rolls his shoulders, nods once, and glances across the cage. His eyes lock on Cerulli’s. No theatrics, no showmanship. Just that cold, unblinking stare. A faint smirk curls at the corner of his mouth as if to say, I’ve seen it all before.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “It all comes down to this moment, folks. The time for talk is over. The stage is set, the fighters are ready. The battle for the middleweight championship is about to begin!”
The referee calls them in, his voice cutting through the roars of the arena. Mike Dempsey stands close, microphone in hand, the air thick with the kind of tension you can almost taste. Tommy McBride does what he’s done a hundred times before. Calm, steady, the voice of order before the storm.
TOMMY McBRIDE: “Alright gentlemen, we’ve gone over the rules in the back. Protect yourself at all times, follow my instructions. Touch ‘em up if you want, and let’s do it.”
Neither man budges. No nod, no handshake, just a cold silence between them, the kind that speaks louder than any trash talk. They turn, retreating back to their corners with the kind of focus that burns through the bright lights.
McBride scans his eyes one last time at two men standing on the edge of something violent and inevitable. A subtle gesture, a glance to each side. Both give the faintest nod. And for a moment, everything from the crowd, the noise, to the flashing cameras, seems to fade. All that’s left is the space between them, waiting to be filled.
ROUND ONE: Under the roaring lights of the United Center, the crowd is electric with part hometown pride for Kristophe Cerulli, part reverence for the reigning legend Zion Momo’a. The opening round begins with both men circling in orthodox stance, twitching feints, reading each other’s rhythm. Cerulli, the young challenger, wastes no time pressing forward, trying to turn this into a firefight. His jab comes sharp and fast, a piston snapping through Momo’a’s guard. Zion, always patient, slips just enough to roll with the shots, measuring distance with subtle footwork, a flick of his lead hand testing range. Cerulli doubles up on his combinations, jab-cross-hook, mixing in low kicks to slow Momo’a’s base. For much of the round, Cerulli dictates pace. He feints high, lands a body shot, and follows with a cracking right over the top that draws a murmur from the crowd. Momo’a absorbs it, nodding, but Cerulli’s pressure is working. Zion’s famed composure is tested as he’s backed to the fence. Cerulli swarms with a four-punch combo capped by a left hook to the ribs. The champion fires back late with a clean counter right and a thudding body kick that echoes through the arena, but Cerulli’s volume and aggression make this his round. The horn sounds to a thunderous Chicago ovation.
ROUND TWO: Momo’a adjusts. Gone is the slow reading posture and in its place, measured aggression. He begins stabbing front kicks to the midsection, intercepting Cerulli’s forward movement. The rhythm changes. Zion starts drawing reactions, slipping inside to counter with surgical precision. Cerulli keeps marching, throwing combinations in bunches, but Momo’a’s eyes are locked in, tracking everything. Midway through the round, Zion lands a blistering right cross that wobbles Cerulli. The challenger tries to recover, circling away, but the champion hunts him with chopping leg kicks and straight punches down the pipe. Cerulli, blood dripping from his nose, shows heart by firing back, catching Momo’a with a clean uppercut in the pocket. The crowd roars at the exchange, yet Zion’s composure shines as he digs a left hook to the liver, forcing Cerulli to backpedal for the first time. The final seconds are tense with Cerulli swinging big, Zion countering with sniper-like precision. At the horn, both men walk back to their corners calm, with the fight firmly still up for grabs.
ROUND THREE: Sensing the momentum has swung in his favor, Momo’a stalks forward, methodical but menacing. Cerulli’s footwork begins to slow, his entries less crisp. Zion starts to see everything, every level change, every punch, and begins piecing him apart. He opens with a stinging jab, follows with a right cross, then a left hook that lands flush. Cerulli staggers backward, trying to reset, but Momo’a smells blood. The champion unloads a furious barrage of hooks, knees, and a crushing right hand that pins Cerulli to the fence. The Chicago crowd rises as Momo’a’s precision turns surgical. He rips to the body, then goes upstairs, cracking Cerulli with a brutal head kick that glances but rattles him. Cerulli tries to clinch, but Zion shucks him off and lets loose another flurry until the referee has seen enough. The stoppage comes mercifully as Cerulli drops to a knee under fire.
Momo’a raises his arms as the United Center erupts with respect for the fallen hometown warrior, admiration for a master still at the top of his craft. The champion bows to the crowd, a serene smile crossing his face. For Zion, it’s another chapter in a storied reign, a reminder that even against hungry challengers in hostile territory, his composure and finishing ability remain unmatched. For Cerulli, it’s a hard lesson in the fire of the elite, a bitter setback, yet the flashes of brilliance he showed ensured his name will remain in the contender conversation.
The cage door swings open and the ringside physicians rush in, boots clattering against canvas still slick with blood and sweat. They move with practiced calm, checking both men as the crowd rumbles with a mix of concern and awe. Cerulli, battered but breathing, sits upright, then pushes himself to his feet to the roar of his hometown. It’s a defiant act, small but heavy with meaning. The doctors nod. Their work is done.
Moments later, the fighters are summoned to the center. The lights feel hotter now. Mike Dempsey steps in, voice rising over the noise, carrying the weight of finality.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, referee Tommy McBride has called for a stop in this fight at three minutes forty-two seconds in the third round, declaring the winner by TKO, AAAAAND STIIIIILL the undisputed Union Grand Prix Middleweight Champion of the World, “The Buzzsaw” Zion Momo’a!”
The words hit like a war drum. The crowd erupts, some cheering, others just standing in stunned appreciation. Dante Reed slides in to fasten the gold around Momo’a’s waist, the glimmer of the belt catching the spotlight.
Momo’a, calm as ever, turns to Cerulli. A brief handshake. Mutual respect, wordless but understood. Then they part, two paths diverging under the same bright lights.
On the broadcast, numbers flash across the screen but the stats can’t quite tell the story. Not the exhaustion. Not the heart. Not the feeling of watching a champion remind the world exactly who he is.
Winner: Zion Momo’a by TKO (Punches) at 3:42 Round 3
Statistics: Zion Momo’a
Punches 61/102 (59%)
Kicks 36/52 (69%)
Clinch strikes 11/19 (58%)
Takedowns 0/0 (0%)
GnP strikes 4/6 (67%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 4/6 (67%)
Time on the ground 8 s
Statistics: Kristophe Cerulli
Punches 48/97 (49%)
Kicks 24/37 (65%)
Clinch strikes 8/15 (53%)
Takedowns 0/2 (0%)
GnP strikes 0/0 (0%)
Submissions 0/0 (0%)
Clinch Attempts 3/5 (60%)
Time on the ground 8 s
After the dust settled and the belt was wrapped around his waist once again, Zion Momo’a stood center cage, breathing heavy but composed, his voice steady over the roar of the Chicago crowd.
First, he paid his respects, turning to the stands with a warm smile and raising a glove. “Chicago, you guys showed nothing but love tonight. I could feel the energy every second in there. Thank you for that.” The crowd responded with a thunderous ovation.
Then, in true championship fashion, he turned his attention to his opponent. “I know we got a little chirpy the last few days leading up to this, but props to Kristophe. That kid’s tough, man. He came to fight, and I respect that. He’s young, he’s hungry. He’ll be back. Nights like this make you better, and I know he’s gonna stay right up there at the top.”
As the adrenaline surged, Zion’s tone sharpened with intent. “I said I wanted to test myself against the future of this division, and I did that. Sasha Volkov, Kristophe Cerulli… both incredible fighters, both incredible challenges. But now it’s time to handle some unfinished business,” he declared, his eyes narrowing toward the camera. Momo’a called out former champion Alexander Sokolov, the man he dethroned for the title. With one win and one draw between them, Momo’a insisted it’s time to “stamp out any doubts” and finish their trilogy once and for all.
Emphasizing his willingness to stay active, he told the crowd and matchmakers that he doesn’t want to sit out. “I want to keep this pace, keep these quick turnarounds going,” he said, before setting his sights firmly on the future. The challenge was made clear. Zion Momo’a wants Sokolov at UGP 71 in Madrid, to put a definitive end to their rivalry and solidify his reign at the top of the middleweight division.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Welcome back to the United Center here in Chicago! UGP 70 rolling right along on what’s already been a memorable night of fights.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Bodie, look who we’ve got in the house tonight. The hometown hero himself, former middleweight champion and Hall of Famer, Chicago’s very own Travis Decker!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Oh, that’s a sight the Windy City crowd loves to see. One of the most respected figures to ever come out of this city. And KC, you remember that rivalry he had with Zion Momo’a, an absolute war of a trilogy. Lost the first two, but came back to win the third when it mattered most, in a championship fight no less.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Yeah, that comeback win really cemented his legacy. You could just feel how much it meant to him and to this city. And I love seeing him here tonight, watching Zion Momo’a defend his title again. Full-circle moment for a Chicago legend.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “No question about it. Travis Decker, Hall of Fame Class of 2024, one of the greats of his era. And speaking of greats, we’ve got another great championship tilt coming your way! It’s Sadie Williams versus Marcela Vargas for the lightweight championship. Stay tuned!”
♫
DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?
I’M THE GOD OF WAR!
♫
The tunnel feels like the mouth of something ancient. Black walls, damp with condensation, swallow the noise from the arena and send it back as a low, pulsing hum. In that narrow space, Marcela Vargas breathes slowly, eyes locked forward. Her shoulders roll beneath the tribal headdress, feathers trembling under the breath of the arena’s air currents. Each exhale fogs the space in front of her, a ghost of the storm she’s about to unleash.
The first drumbeat of “God of War” rumbles through the speakers. The bass crawls through her chest. Fog spills across her feet, curling around her calves. The spotlight snaps to life, one perfect beam that finds her face and doesn’t let go. She steps forward into it, a silhouette cut from myth, her necklace clinking softly like ancestral armor.
The crowd’s reaction hits her in waves. Some cheer, voices hoarse from belief. Others boo, loud and raw, trying to drown her in noise. But their energy, love or hate, feeds her the same. Out here, emotion is currency, and tonight she’s rich.
She breaks from the tunnel and onto the stage, and fire erupts to the rhythm of the song with sharp, rhythmic bursts that match her stride. Shadows dance across her face, carving out the edges of something both beautiful and terrible. Her expression doesn’t change. She’s not here for approval. She’s here to claim.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And here she comes, folks! The number three ranked lightweight in the world, Marcela Vargas. A record of 13-2, 4-0-1 inside the Union GP cage, and tonight she walks into the biggest moment of her career with the chance to become world champion.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And Bodie, you can feel it in this arena right now. Vargas has that aura about her. This is a fighter who doesn’t tiptoe into the spotlight, she storms into it. She’s an elite Muay Thai striker with a relentless style, hyper aggressive, always looking to walk her opponents down. But what people sometimes overlook is that she’s got real competency on the ground too, especially in those transition moments. She’s not just one-dimensional. I’m sure we’re going to see it finally tested in a Union GP cage tonight.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “That aggression you’re talking about, it’s been her calling card. You look at the wins she’s racked up in Union GP, she’s not just beating contenders, she’s breaking their wills with forward pressure, elbows, knees, and that ruthless clinch game. And she’s not intimidated by the bright lights, KC. If anything, she seems to thrive in it.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Exactly. The thing about Vargas is that she doesn’t just fight opponents, she drags them into her fight. And that’s dangerous. If she can impose that style tonight, we could see a new champion crowned. But let’s not forget, the margin for error shrinks when you’re fighting at this level. Against someone with sharp counters or a strong defensive game, that aggression can be risky. Still, Vargas has shown time and time again that she’s willing to take those chances to create chaos.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And the Chicago crowd here is split. You hear the mixture of boos, cheers, and sheer intensity as she makes her way down the aisle. It’s not adoration she’s chasing, it’s respect. And if she can capture the title tonight, there won’t be any question left about where she belongs in this division.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “She looks locked in, Bodie. You see it in her eyes, there’s no distraction, no nerves, just laser focus. This is what fighters dream of. All those years of sacrifice come down to this moment, and Vargas is walking into it like someone who’s fully ready to take it.”
As she begins her walk down the aisle, the arena seems to close in. The smell of sweat and beer, the roar of thousands pressing down from above. She feels every vibration in her chest, every heartbeat syncing to the music. Her cornermen flank her like sentinels, their words lost in the thunder of the crowd.
Near the steps, they exchange a final embrace. It’s brief. They know. No need for words at this point.
An official reaches out, patting her gloves, tracing her arms, checking her gear. The ritual feels distant, mechanical. Her gaze never leaves the cage. The light glints off the chain links, and for a fleeting second, she sees her presence inside those steel lattice walls.
Then the door swings open. She steps through the threshold, fog and fire behind her, destiny in front. Her foot hits the canvas. And just like that, the War Goddess has entered the battlefield.
Backstage hums with chaos. Coaches yelling, gloves popping, some poor soul shadowboxing the air like it owes them money. But in the middle of it all, Sadie Williams is calm. Almost too calm. Her red hair catches the tunnel light as she bounces on her toes, humming the first few bars before her song even hits.
♫
I GOT A SONG FILLED
WITH SHIT FOR THE STRONG WILLED
WHEN THE WORLD GIVES YOU A RAW DEAL
SETS YOU OFF TIL YOU SCREAM “PISS OFF, SCREW YOU!”
♫
The beat of “Venom” by Eminem slams through the speakers, and the tunnel becomes a pulse of red. Fog creeps across the floor like a living thing. Sadie grins wide, that mischievous, unbothered grin she’s famous for, and steps into the beam of red light waiting for her. The crowd feels it before they see her, a rumble swelling into a full on roar. When “The Serpent” finally emerges, the arena shakes.
She raises both hands, feeding off the noise, letting it wash through her. Red and white lasers slice the darkness above, tracing her silhouette. The smoke parts like a curtain as she dances her way down the aisle, shoulders rolling, head bobbing, singing along to every word. The fans love it, they always have. She points to one side, slaps a few hands, shimmies to the beat. Pressure? It’s there, but she turns it into rhythm. Turns it into fire.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And now, making her way to the octagon is the reigning, defending Union GP Lightweight Champion, Sadie Williams. A two-time champion here as well as a former Everest MMA Featherweight Champion, and one of the most well rounded athletes in the entire promotion.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “What I love about Sadie, Bodie, is how loose she stays under the lights. Look at her right now, singing along to her walkout song, grinning ear to ear. That’s not an act. That’s who she is. She thrives in this kind of energy, and I think that’s part of what makes her so dangerous. She’s not consumed by the pressure, she enjoys it.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And that composure translates directly into her performances. We’ve seen her in some absolute wars, and time after time, it’s her calm under fire that wins her those moments. She’s a world class Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu practitioner with six submission wins here in Union GP, but she’s just as capable of turning it into a brawl if that’s what’s required.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Yeah, and that’s something her opponents always underestimate. People talk about her grappling, and they should, but she’s become so much more than that. Her striking has evolved, her distance management has improved, and she’s added real pop to her combinations. If you overcommit trying to avoid the takedown, she’ll make you pay on the feet.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Sadie’s had a long journey to this point. Two-time champion, battled through highs and lows, reinvented herself after setbacks. Tonight, she’s not just defending a title, she’s defending a legacy. And judging by her demeanor right now, she’s ready to do it with a smile.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “That’s what makes her so special, Bodie. She carries herself with this joy, this authenticity that you can’t fake. You hear the crowd, they adore her. And it’s not just because she’s a champion. It’s because they feel like they’re part of her story every time she steps into the cage.”
Her cornermen trail behind, half laughing, half shouting reminders, but Sadie’s locked in her zone. Loose, happy, dangerous. The smell of pyros and fog fills her lungs as she nears the cage.
At the steps, she shares quick embraces with her team. A hug, a head tap, a whispered word gone as fast as it comes. She peels off her warmups, everything red, gloves, shorts, tape, a flare in human form. One of her coaches wipes her face with a towel before the official steps in, hands gliding over her shoulders, checking gear, slicking her cheeks with grease.
The cage door opens. The music hits its final drop.
Sadie takes one deep breath, flashes a grin at the crowd and cartwheels through the entrance like it’s second nature.
Her foot lands on the canvas.
And just like that, The Serpent has arrived.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the second Double Feature Co-Main Event of the evening! Sanctioned by the Illinois State Athletic Commission, our three judges scoring this contest at cageside are Maggie Flynn, Eddie Serrano, and Frank Marcelli, and when the action begins, our referee in charge in the octagon is Colin Davenport. AND NOW, live from the sold out United Center in Chicago, Illinois, streaming exclusively on the Battleground Network…”
IT’S TIME!
MIKE DEMPSEY: “The following contest is scheduled for five rounds and it is for the undisputed Union Grand Prix Lightweight Championship! Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, a Muay Thai holding a professional mixed martial arts record of thirteen wins, two losses. She stands 5’9” tall, and weighing in at 155 pounds. She is from Salvador, Bahia, Brazil, fighting out of Chute Boxe — presenting the number three ranked Lightweight Contender in the World, “A Deusa Da Guerra” — “The War Goddess” Marcela Vargas!”
As the lights dim and the spotlight swings between them, Marcela Vargas stands stone still in her corner, her chest rising and falling with deliberate rhythm. The tribal headdress has been removed, but the aura remains. Her eyes locked forward, jaw set, every muscle coiled beneath her skin like drawn wire. She doesn’t pace. She doesn’t flinch. Mike Dempsey’s voice booms her name and she simply nods once, tapping a fist to her heart, staring straight through her opponent as if already mapping the war to come.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “And her opponent, fighting out of the red corner, a 10th Planet Jiu-Jitsu fighter holding a professional mixed martial arts record of twenty wins, six losses, one draw. She stands 5’9” tall, and weighing in at 154 pounds. She is from Surrey, British Columbia, Canada, fighting out of Titan MMA — presenting the former Everest MMA Featherweight Champion and the two-time REIGNING, DEFENDING, UNDISPUTED Union Grand Prix Lightweight Champion of the World, “The Serpent” Sadie Williams!”
Across the cage, Sadie Williams is the mirror opposite of her opponent. Loose. Fluid. She bounces side to side, rolling her shoulders, a grin breaking across her face as the crowd roars with her introduction. She points out toward the crowd, mouthing “let’s go” with that trademark spark in her eyes. When her name hits, she throws up both hands, blowing a playful kiss to the fans before shaking out her arms and settling into her stance. One radiates tension like a storm cloud. The other, joy like a flame. Two energies on a collision course.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Certainly a night and day contrast of emotions for these two warriors. These women have put in the work. Now, it’s time to put it all on the line. In the next few minutes, we will witness the defining moment of these fighters’ careers on this historic evening.”
The referee steps forward, his voice cutting through the intoxicating hum of the arena. Mike Dempsey stands just behind him, microphone in hand, the moment tight in the air. Colin Davenport gives his final briefing, but the words barely register. Both women are already in another place entirely. Marcela Vargas stands rigid, breathing through her nose, her stare locked like a predator before the strike. Sadie Williams shifts on her toes, shoulders loose, red hair catching the lights, that familiar half smile flickering on her face like a fuse waiting to be lit.
COLIN DAVENPORT: “Alright ladies, we’ve gone through the rules in the back. I want a good, clean fight. Protect yourself at all times. Follow my instructions at all times. Touch gloves and head to your corners.”
They meet in the middle, the sound of leather smacking leather swallowed by the roar of the crowd. No extra motion, no wasted second, just two fighters acknowledging the ritual before the storm. They break apart, backpedaling into their corners, eyes never leaving each other. The tension in the air feels combustible. Colin Davenport glances from one to the other, searching for a sign of readiness he already knows is there.
He steps aside.
The bell is coming.
ROUND ONE: The United Center hums with anticipation as two of the most dangerous women in the lightweight division circle each other, both cautious yet calculating. Sadie Williams, the reigning queen of the mat, takes the center early, her stance low and coiled, ready to explode into a takedown. Across from her, Marcela Vargas bounces lightly on her toes in that trademark southpaw rhythm, eyes locked on Sadie’s midsection, waiting to time a punishing counter left. The first minute is all about range and reconnaissance. Sadie flicks out probing jabs, testing the reach, while Marcela answers with sharp kicks to the inside thigh and body, strikes that thud with intention. The champion tries to feint level changes, hoping to draw out a reckless reaction, but Vargas is patient, reading the patterns, her footwork tight and disciplined. Midway through the round, Sadie closes the distance with a quick double jab and a low shot, but Marcela sprawls beautifully, circling off and punishing the attempt with a short right hook. The crowd gasps as the challenger’s aggression briefly flares. She strings together a left body kick and a right hand down the pipe, forcing Sadie to reset. For a striker known for chaos, Vargas looks surprisingly measured here, respecting Sadie’s grappling threat but still asserting her presence. As the round ticks under a minute, Sadie begins to find her rhythm with combinations with two, three, even four punches at a time. Not heavy, but constant, forcing Marcela to stay defensive. A sneaky right hook lands for the champ, followed by a low leg kick that draws applause from the Chicago faithful. Marcela fires back late with a crisp one-two and a snapping teep that sends Sadie back toward the fence, but the horn sounds before either can build momentum. It’s a tactical opener, one that gives both women data, not dominance. Sadie showed patience, mixing levels and pace, while Marcela demonstrated sharp distance management and poise under pressure. The chess match has begun, and the tension in the arena thickens as they return to their corners.
ROUND TWO: The second round opens with Marcela Vargas marching forward, eyes locked on the champion, looking to build off the range finding work she did earlier. Sadie Williams circles on her bike, fainting level changes and prodding with jabs that don’t need to land, they just need to make Marcela think. The southpaw challenger answers with a thudding inside leg kick that echoes through the United Center, drawing an audible “oof” from the Chicago crowd. Sadie bites down and fires a three-punch combo, the second shot clipping Vargas on the cheek before Marcela retaliates with a heavy left hand that snaps Sadie’s head back. The fight is beginning to open up. Vargas presses into the pocket, whipping short elbows and knees in tight. Her Muay Thai is sharp. Every strike looks like it’s meant to end things, but Sadie is no longer static. The champion ducks under a looping left and changes levels, timing the entry perfectly. She muscles Vargas to the canvas with a double leg takedown that draws a roar from the crowd. Immediately, she goes to work from half guard, prying for wrist control and dropping short hammerfists. Vargas tries to hip escape, but Sadie uses that momentum to slide into side control. She teases an Americana before spinning for a mounted triangle, the kind of unorthodox attack that has become her signature. Marcela thrashes and rolls, using raw strength to scramble free, but Sadie clings to her like a serpent, as her name suggests. She transitions beautifully, riding Vargas’ movement into back control, looking for the choke. The challenger defends well, two-on-one on the wrist, but the round is slipping away from her. Vargas bucks hard, creating space, and somehow manages to stand. The crowd erupts as both fighters return to the center. One bleeding, the other grinning. The closing seconds are wild. Marcela swings with reckless abandon, uncorking a left hook that lands flush. Sadie fires back, a swarm of straight punches that push Vargas into the fence. The horn sounds as they exchange leather, neither willing to give an inch. The momentum feels dead even heading into round three. Sadie’s grappling dictates much of the action, Marcela’s power keeping the danger ever present. The crowd can sense it, this one’s going to boil over soon.
ROUND THREE: The third frame begins with both fighters visibly marked up. Sadie’s cheek reddened from the left hands, Marcela’s ribs welted from knees in the clinch. There’s mutual respect now, but no hesitation. Vargas wastes no time taking center cage, stepping in behind her jab, slinging that rear left hand like a hammer. Sadie, still composed, uses lateral footwork to angle off and probe with her lead hand. She’s looking for another takedown, but Vargas seems wise to it now. Every level change is greeted by a sprawling hip and a punishing knee up the middle. Sadie adjusts. Instead of diving for the hips, she fakes the shot, pops a jab-cross, and ducks under a counter to close distance. Vargas digs an underhook, trying to keep her upright, but Sadie’s persistence pays off. She hooks a leg, drives through, and plants the challenger on the canvas with authority. The Chicago crowd roars as Sadie slides effortlessly into half guard, framing Vargas’ neck with her forearm. For a moment, the pace slows. Sadie grinds with short elbows, pressing Marcela into the mat like she’s flattening dough. But Vargas is scrappy, she never stays still. She kicks off the cage, rolling and reversing position in a stunning burst of athleticism. Suddenly, it’s Marcela on top, raining down short elbows. The crowd explodes at the reversal. Sadie keeps her composure, looking for control from the bottom, tying up the wrists, but Vargas has found her moment. She postures up, drops a hammerfist that lands flush, and draws a gasp from the audience. Sadie wriggles, shrimping out, but Marcela transitions beautifully with a spin and a hook, and now she’s on Sadie’s back. The challenger flattens the champion out. The crowd rises. Marcela threads the arm under the chin and cranks. Sadie’s eyes widened. It’s deep. The crowd erupts, half screaming for the tap, half roaring for escape. Seconds drag into eternities as Sadie pries at the choking arm. Her face turns crimson. Ten seconds. The arena is deafening. Marcela squeezes with everything she has, but somehow, somehow, Sadie peels the arm away, just enough to breathe. The horn sounds like salvation. Vargas slaps the mat in frustration as Sadie rolls to her back, chest heaving. Marcela’s confidence surges while Sadie’s resolve hardens. Both return to their corners knowing this one’s turned into a war.
ROUND FOUR: They meet in the center again, both carrying the residue of that last round. Sadie’s neck is red and tender from the choke, Marcela’s left eye beginning to puff. The air inside the United Center hums with tension, fans know momentum now lives with the challenger. Vargas wastes no time asserting herself. She stalks forward behind a sharp southpaw jab, mixing in a thudding body kick that echoes off Sadie’s ribs. The champion tries to answer, but Marcela’s confidence is palpable. She’s reading, reacting, and ripping heavy leather with bad intentions. Sadie attempts to reset, circling out, pawing with the lead hand, looking for the opening to duck under, but Vargas won’t allow it. She cuts off the cage, firing a blistering combination, jab-hook-rear kick, that sends sweat flying from Sadie’s brow. The crowd roars at the precision, and for the first time all night, the champion looks a step behind. Every exchange seems to tilt toward Marcela, her aggression surging like a storm tide. Then Sadie bites down on her mouthpiece and plants her feet. Enough dancing. She fires back a three punch combo ending with a looping right hand that glances the chin. Vargas snarls, pressing forward with another flurry. They trade in the pocket, and the crowd is on its feet as the two women exchange hellfire. Marcela lands a heavy left that snaps Sadie’s head, but the champion’s return, a piston of a right cross, detonates flush. Vargas’ head whips back, and in that frozen instant, her legs betray her. The challenger collapses, folded beneath her own momentum. The United Center erupts as Sadie swarms, hammering down with rights and lefts. The referee’s eyes are wide, watching closely as Marcela writhes, trying to recover. Somehow, through pure grit, she traps Sadie’s wrist, kicks her off, and scrambles upright, back to the fence. Her legs are jelly. Sadie presses forward, pouring on the assault with hooks, uppercuts, and body shots. Each one digging deeper. Marcela fires back, wild but defiant, refusing to go quietly. The final seconds of the round devolve into chaos. Two exhausted warriors standing toe-to-toe, trading until the horn blares. The arena shakes. Marcela stumbles back to her corner, still standing by sheer will. Sadie raises her arms, chest heaving, blood on her gloves. Momentum swings back to the champion. Everything comes down to the fifth.
ROUND FIVE: When the final round begins, the arena feels electric with that rare vibe of shared awe and exhaustion. Both women are battered, slick with sweat and streaked with blood, but there’s no hesitation in their eyes. The champion and challenger march toward the center like two fighters born for moments like this. Sadie Williams exhales through her nose, hands loose, eyes narrowed. Across from her, Marcela Vargas shakes out her arms, jaw clenched, daring the world to doubt her. The round opens with Marcela once again taking center control, pushing the pace with looping power shots. She’s throwing with venom, each left hand comes loaded, each kick meant to break. Sadie weathers the storm, slipping just outside range, answering with short counters and stiff jabs to the body. The fatigue is clear now. Their strikes don’t crack with the same snap as earlier, but they carry more weight. The weight of consequence. Every landed punch now draws a gasp from the crowd, every miss a collective exhale. Midway through the round, Sadie changes levels beneath a wild left hook and drives Vargas into the mat with a thudding double leg takedown. The crowd erupts again. Vargas kicks and scrambles, desperate to get free, but Sadie’s hips are glued to her. The champion transitions smoothly to side control, drops a short elbow, then begins fishing for an arm. Marcela bucks and twists, rolling to her knees, but in that transition Sadie slides her legs up, a trap already forming. Suddenly, they’re tangled. Sadie on her back, legs laced high, one arm secured. The triangle is in motion. Marcela postures, hammering desperate shots downward, trying to break free, but Sadie’s adjustments are surgical, angling her hips, tightening the squeeze. Vargas grits her teeth, gathers everything she has, and lifts Sadie clean off the mat, slamming her back down in a last ditch attempt to escape. The impact echoes through the arena. Every soul in the building thought freedom prevailed, but in actuality, it only makes the choke worse. Sadie’s legs cinch tighter. The challenger’s face flushes crimson. Her movements become frantic, then sluggish. The crowd senses it, that fragile edge between defiance and defeat. The referee drops to one knee, watching closely. Marcela’s kicks slow, her arms paw weakly, and then… stillness. The ref grabs an arm and it’s limp. It’s over. Sadie Williams releases the choke, rolling away as the ref waves it off. The crowd erupts. The champion kneels in the center, breathing heavy, bloodied but triumphant. A serpent who struck when it mattered most. Vargas lies beside her, eyes open but dazed, the fight beaten from her yet her spirit intact.
In the aftermath of a war waged on instinct and will, Sadie Williams rises. Her breath ragged, eyes wide, every nerve still vibrating with the echo of survival. For twenty-five minutes, she danced on the razor’s edge and came out still holding the blade. Now, draped in sweat and adrenaline, she scales the fence, perching halfway over it like she might dive headlong into the roar that’s been calling her name all night. The crowd answers in kind with a surge of sound that rattles the steel, a celebration of resilience.
Across the cage, Marcela Vargas lies still. The physicians rush in, their presence slicing through the noise, their touch both clinical and tender. For a moment, time falters with that uneasy hush that always lingers after something primal. Then, a flicker. Vargas blinks, exhales, and begins to stir. Relief ripples through the arena as she rises, unsteady but proud. There’s no shame here, only the shared gravity of what they’ve endured.
Under the lights, Mike Dempsey lifts the microphone, his voice cracking the air like the final note of a long, brutal song.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, referee Colin Davenport has called for a stop in this fight at three minutes fifty-five seconds in the fifth round, declaring the winner by submission, AAAAAND STIIIIILL the undisputed Union Grand Prix Lightweight Champion of the World, “The Serpent” Sadie Williams!”
The declaration sends another wave crashing through the crowd. Dante Reed steps forward, cinching gold around Williams’ waist. It’s a familiar weight, but tonight it feels heavier, earned in blood and breath. Sadie bows her head for a moment, hands gripping the belt like a relic, before turning to Vargas. The two women meet at the center, exchange a handshake with unspoken respect between warriors who have emptied everything.
The cameras close in. The lights flare. Somewhere above, the screen flashes the numbers, the sterile language of chaos quantified. But none of it tells the truth of what happened here. Not the grit. Not the grace. Not the quiet triumph of a champion who refuses to let go.
Winner: Sadie Williams by Submission (Triangle Choke) at 3:55 Round 5
Statistics: Sadie Williams
Punches 82/146 (56%)
Kicks 21/38 (55%)
Clinch Strikes 14/22 (63%)
Takedowns 6/9 (67%)
GnP Strikes 25/39 (64%)
Submissions 4/5 (80%)
Clinch Attempts 4/6 (67%)
Time on the Ground 214 s
Statistics: Marcela Vargas
Punches 74/139 (53%)
Kicks 33/55 (60%)
Clinch Strikes 19/31 (61%)
Takedowns 1/3 (33%)
GnP Strikes 12/20 (60%)
Submissions 1/2 (50%)
Clinch Attempts 5/8 (63%)
Time on the Ground 214 s
Still catching her breath after one of the wildest title defenses of her career, Sadie Williams stood center cage under the bright lights, her expression a mix of exhaustion, relief, and pure joy. She didn’t rush her words, this was her moment, and she wanted to savor it. With the belt draped over her shoulder, she took a deep breath, looked around the roaring arena, and smiled.
“This right here,” she said, her voice cracking slightly, “this is why we do it. To defend the belt on the biggest card in Union Grand Prix history. I’ll never forget this night.”
She turned toward her opponent, raising a glove in respect. “Marcela pushed me harder than anyone has in a long time. She brought out the best in me tonight. Honestly, she made me go back to the gym and work on things I hadn’t focused on before, like my striking. You all saw that tonight. Because of her, I’ve grown into a more complete fighter.”
The crowd roared their approval, and Sadie gave a grateful nod before continuing. “Thank you to everyone here, to this city, for the love and the energy. You all carried me through that fight when it got tough.”
When asked what’s next, Sadie just grinned, her face still streaked with sweat and blood. “Whoever they put in front of me, I’ll be ready. If it’s Benji, I’d love to run that back. If it’s 2Face, let’s run the trilogy. Or maybe it’s a new name, like Johnny Laws, whoever. I don’t care. I’ll fight anyone, anytime.”
She finished by tapping the belt once and lifting it high above her head. “Tonight was special. Thank you, everyone. This one’s for you.”
The camera panned out as the crowd erupted once more, the champion soaking in the ovation as a fighter transformed, a moment immortalized.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Welcome back inside the sold out United Center here in Chicago, Illinois. The crowd is still buzzing after that last one, and the energy has peaked as we head toward our main event.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And check this out, Bodie. How about a living legend in the house tonight! Former two-time heavyweight champion, Hall of Famer, and proud Chicago native, “Dog Face” Donnie Calabrese!”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Oh, that’s special. You talk about a pioneer for Union GP. One of the toughest, most beloved heavyweights to ever step inside the cage. They say this is the house that Jordan built, but when it comes to MMA, this is the house that Dog Face built!”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Absolutely. You could feel it when his face popped up on the screen. This entire arena stood up for him. He helped put Chicago on the MMA map, and now he’s giving back to the sport as an ICSC ambassador executive. Just a true class act all around.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Couldn’t agree more, KC. Donnie Calabrese was a fighter who embodied grit, heart, and perseverance. Great to see him here tonight in front of his hometown crowd. Alright, let’s turn our attention back to the cage one last time. It’s time to set the stage for our main event of the evening!”
♫
SYNTHESIZE ALL YOUR SYMPATHY
YOU DON’T KNOW, YOU DON’T OWE ME
SO TIRED OF THIS GAME
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN, YOU DON’T MEAN WHAT YOU SAY
DEAL WITH THE DEVILS I KNOW
WAIT FOR THE ONES THAT I DON’T
A NEVER-ENDING SHOW
I ALWAYS SEEM TO BE FLAT, IT’S MY ONLY NOTE
♫
The tunnel feels smaller than usual. The walls close in, pulsing with the bass from “Synthetic Sympathy.” Serenity Holmes rolls her shoulders once, exhales, and starts walking. Behind her, the fog machines hiss to life, swallowing the edges of the corridor in pale smoke. The sound of her footsteps blends with the heartbeat of the music. She’s young, sure. But she’s not new. Every step carries the weight of a promise made in sweat and repetition, in lonely mornings and endless rounds.
When she emerges into the light, the crowd hits her like a tidal wave. Cheers rise from the dark, faces flickering in strobes of purple and blue. Somewhere up in the rafters, her name flashes across the screen, and the roar grows louder. Fog billows from the stage, lasers cut across the air like blades of neon, and Serenity walks straight through it, head high, eyes fixed on the cage at the end of the aisle.
She doesn’t play to the crowd, not tonight. They cheer for the prodigy, the one who stumbled once, who’s now got her second chance to take it all. The Hall of Famer waits on the other side, but Serenity’s not thinking about legacy. She’s thinking about precision. About control. About how every breath, every blink, every twitch of her hands is a part of the fight already unfolding.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally reached the pinnacle of the night. It’s time for the main event! Right now, Serenity Holmes is making her way to the octagon in pursuit of becoming immortal in mixed martial arts. The young bantamweight prospect has had quite the journey to get here. At just 22 years old, she’s already faced some of the top competition in Union GP, including a title fight against Victoria Marshall. That loss could have set her back, but instead it seems to have fueled her fire to get back in position to finish her story.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Serenity’s athletic background is fascinating. Not only is she a rising star in MMA, but as many know, she’s a decorated pro wrestling champion. That dual-sport experience shows in her agility and in her ability to perform under pressure. You can see it in the way she moves down the aisle right now. She’s controlled, confident, almost like she’s manifesting every step while still keeping that primal mindset.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “The crowd is really into it. You can hear the cheers echo through the United Center. Fans are picking up on her momentum and her story as a prospect of the year in 2024. You can feel the energy shifting as she approaches the cage. There’s excitement for what she can do against a veteran like Marissa Kane in the main event.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “And let’s not forget, Bodie, this is a fighter who thrives in high pressure moments. Serenity’s wrestling background pairs beautifully with her striking. She’s got the takedown ability to mix things up and keep her opponents guessing. That versatility is going to be key tonight because she’s up against a calculated, seasoned fighter. Watch her body language, you can see that intensity in her eyes. She’s ready to seize this moment. That’s what separates prospects from true champions. Serenity’s aware of the stakes, but she’s also enjoying every second of this moment. Every step down the aisle, every glance at the crowd, it’s all part of her preparation. She’s locking into her fight mindset right now, and when that cage door closes, she’s going to be ready to unleash everything she’s worked for.”
Her team fans out behind her. One of them gives her a quick nod as she reaches the barricade. She stops, turns, and they meet her with brief embraces. Shoulder to shoulder, forehead to forehead. No words. Just unspoken bond that says you’re ready.
At the checkpoint, the inspector pats her down. She lifts her arms, shifts her stance, feels the cold smear of Vaseline across her cheeks. The lights make everything glisten. It smells like adrenaline and disinfectant. The moment stretches thin, humming, alive.
Then the official waves her forward.
She jogs the final steps, touches the cage door, and enters a new realm. The world narrows. The music fades. Her first steps inside feel like stepping into a storm she’s been chasing her whole life.
The tunnel swallows sound. Only the low, primal thump of the bass seeps through the walls like a heartbeat synced to her own. Marissa Kane stands in shadow, hood up, wrapped in gold and black BST warmups that glint whenever a stray light catches them. Her gloves hang at her sides, motionless, her breath calm and steady. A calm assassin waiting for the world to open.
Then the cue hits, the first snarling riff of her entrance track, something dark and pounding, halfway between a war chant and a storm breaking loose. The fog machines hiss. The tunnel fills with smoke. And out she walks.
♫
BLOOD FOR FREEDOM
YOU’RE PUSHING ME INTO THE CORNER
DON’T FIGHT WITH ME
DON’T FIGHT WITH ME
DON’T FIGHT WITH ME
I’M CROWNING NO MAN FOR HIS ARMOUR OR RHAPSODY
FOR WHAT I SEE AND WHAT I FEEL
WAKE UP
I’M DEFYING YOU, SEEING RIGHT THROUGH YOU ONCE I BELIEVED IN YOU
WAKE UP
FEEL WHAT’S COMING DEEP WITHIN WE ALL KNOW
BLOOD FOR FREEDOM
♫
The stage lights explode to life in strobing gold and black. Each flash freezes her in motion. Head slightly bowed, shoulders squared, the picture of a woman who has already decided how this night ends. The crowd’s reaction booms as they all rise to their feet. The Murder Queen walks beneath their noise like it’s nothing new, like she’s heard every curse and every cheer before and they all sound the same to her now.
Down the aisle she goes, eyes locked on the cage ahead. The music hammers through the floor. The lights chase her every step. She doesn’t break stride. Her face is stoic, carved from resolve. Every muscle under those gold-trimmed warmups is tense, every thought sharpened into a single point.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And now, fight fans, with the final walkout of the night, it’s the Pride of Toronto, Marissa Kane! Former MLC undisputed champ, SFN world champion, WFC bantamweight champion, and now the Union Grand Prix bantamweight champion! You can feel the weight of her legacy with every step. She’s been at the top of this sport for years, and she’s bringing that experience tonight.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “Absolutely, Bodie. What stands out about Marissa is just how complete she is. She can strike, grapple, wrestle, and she has a fight IQ that’s second to none. That combination of skills and experience allows her to adapt in real time. You can see it in her walkout. She’s calm, methodical, like she already knows exactly how she’s going to approach this fight.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “And let’s talk about her presence. She’s a decorated athlete across multiple combat sports like Serenity Holmes. MMA, pro wrestling, even boxing. That shows in her poise. The crowd is giving her all the respect, because they know they’re watching a fighter who has truly earned her place at the top.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “You see that in the way she’s interacting with her cornermen, giving a few nods, staying loose, but there’s this unmistakable intensity in her eyes. She’s a calm assassin, Bodie. She’s been here before, she’s faced adversity, and she thrives in these high pressure moments. This isn’t her first rodeo, she’s ready for anything that comes through that cage door tonight.”
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Her conditioning and versatility are going to be key tonight. She’s able to pace herself over five rounds, mix up striking and grappling, and force her opponents into uncomfortable positions. That’s how she’s remained dominant for so long.”
KAYLA CHAPMAN: “She uses these moments before a fight to sharpen her mental edge, to get into the zone before stepping inside the cage. That’s what separates a great fighter from a legend, and Marissa Kane has been a legend in every sense of the word for over a decade. When she steps through that cage door, everything she’s done in her career, all the lessons, all the hard fought battles, come into play. This is what a true champion looks like in motion.”
At the base of the steps, her cornermen close in. A brief embrace from one, a hand on her shoulder from another. She peels off the warmup jacket, revealing the black and gold fight kit beneath, the royal armor of a woman who built her crown in blood. One coach whispers something in her ear but she doesn’t react, just nods once.
The inspector steps forward. Kane lifts her arms. The gloves are checked. The Vaseline is smeared cold across her cheekbones. She blinks, inhales the familiar petroleum jelly aroma, and feels her pulse settle again. The world outside the lights fades, only the cage exists now.
She climbs the steel steps, pauses just long enough to take one final breath, and slips through the cage door.
Once inside, she circles slowly, scanning the crowd, the canvas, her opponent already pacing in the opposite corner. Then she stops. Plants her feet. And exhales.
Inside the cage, the Murder Queen is home.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the Main Event of the evening! Sanctioned by the Illinois State Athletic Commission, our three judges scoring this contest at cageside are Maggie Flynn, Eddie Serrano, and Frank Marcelli, and when the action begins, our referee in charge in the octagon is Lars Levy. AND NOW, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Live from the sold out United Center in Chicago, Illinois, streaming exclusively on the Battleground Network…”
IT’S TIME!
MIKE DEMPSEY: “The following contest is scheduled for five rounds and it is for the undisputed Union Grand Prix Bantamweight Championship! Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, a Kickboxer holding a professional mixed martial arts record of nine wins, two losses. She stands 5’7” tall, and weighing in at 133.5 pounds. She is from Houston, Texas, fighting out of Holmes MMA and Wrestling Academy — presenting the number one ranked Bantamweight Contender in the World, “22nd Century Girl” Serenity Holmes!”
As Mike Dempsey’s voice booms through the sold out United Center, Serenity Holmes makes her introduction as the young challenger with something to prove. Dressed in her ice-blue and purple fight kit, she bounds into the cage with energy and poise. Her dual-sport background and reputation as a rising star are on display in her confident footwork and subtle gestures. A deep inhale, a fist raised, a slight bounce on the balls of her feet, ready to strike. Her cornermen offer final words of encouragement through the chain link fence, and she responds with nods, keeping her focus tight, her mindset calm.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “And her opponent, fighting out of the red corner, a Taekwondo Fighter holding a professional mixed martial arts record of twenty-five wins, four losses. She stands 5’7” tall, and weighing in at 135 pounds. She is from Toronto, Ontario, Canada, fighting out of Throne MMA — presenting the Hall of Fame Class of 2021 Inductee and THE REIGNING, DEFENDING, UNDISPUTED Union Grand Prix Bantamweight Champion of the World, Marissa “Murder Queen” Kane!”
Across the cage, Marissa Kane steps out from her corner with the composure of a seasoned champion. Dressed in her gold and black fight kit, she moves deliberately, her eyes scanning the arena with cold focus. She acknowledges the crowd with a small, confident nod and a raised fist, absorbing the energy but letting none of it shake her rhythm. Every movement is measured, a blend of ritual and readiness, a champion fully aware of the stakes.
BODIE SULLIVAN: “Alright fight fans, this is it! History is up for grabs as we are set to embark on a possible twenty-five minute journey to decide who will walk out of The Windy City carrying the undisputed bantamweight championship. The world is watching with bated breath as these two warriors step into the spotlight. Everything’s on the line. The belt, the legacy, the immortality. Get locked in, because this is going to be one hell of a fight.”
The cage lights dim just slightly, a hush rolling over the packed United Center as Lars Levy steps into the center of the octagon, eyes sharp, voice steady. Mike Dempsey hovers behind with the mic, the crowd’s energy bouncing off the steel and canvas. Levy calls the fighters forward for the final instructions.
LARS LEVY: “Alright ladies, we’ve gone through the rules in the back. Protect yourself at all times, follow my instructions, touch gloves and come out ready to fight.”
There’s a beat, a fraction of a second that stretches like an eternity, and then both women close the distance. Gloves meet in a crisp, almost ceremonial tap. It’s respectful, but it carries the weight of everything that led to this moment. Adrenaline courses through their veins, visible in the way Kane’s eyes scan Holmes, in the subtle tightening of Serenity’s fists.
They backpedal to their corners, settling into their stances. Every muscle poised, every movement calculated. Levy steps closer, giving each a final nod, a silent check-in that says the rules are clear, the path is set, and the fight is theirs to write. In the electric static before the storm, the arena seems to lean in, the first undeniable moment of combat ready to unfold.
ROUND ONE: The lights dim, the crowd buzzes, and the stage feels almost mythic. The bantamweight queen, Marissa Kane, returning to defend her throne against the young and hungry Serenity Holmes, whose poise masks the fire burning beneath her calm expression. The opening seconds unfold like a chess match in motion. Serenity circling wide from her southpaw stance, cutting angles with sharp footwork, while Marissa stands tall and composed, her guard high, her sights unwavering. Holmes wastes no time testing range, darting in behind a double jab and cracking the body with a left kick. It lands clean, drawing a small nod from the champion. Serenity’s movement is fluid and deceptive as she feints the jab and slides into a check hook, catching Kane on the cheek. The crowd gasps. The challenger’s speed is evident, and she’s the busier fighter early. Kane tries to answer with a snapping body kick and a side kick to the midsection, but Holmes keeps her distance, reading the timing and slipping out of range. A minute in, Serenity begins to find her rhythm, mixing in low kicks and straight lefts that thump through Kane’s defense. The champion, meanwhile, appears patient, stoic, perhaps even calculating. She knows this storm is coming and she’s not rushing to match it, but Serenity’s pace is relentless. A one-two lands flush, followed by a left to the liver. Kane absorbs it but is forced backward, circling off the fence. The crowd roars as Holmes presses forward, firing a combination, jab-cross-left high kick, that glances off the temple. Kane finally fires back with a spinning back kick that catches Serenity square in the ribs, forcing her to take a half step back. It’s the first moment of pause from the challenger, but she quickly reasserts herself, blitzing forward with another flurry that forces Kane to clinch. Holmes digs a knee to the body before Kane trips her into a brief takedown, though Serenity scrambles right back to her feet. The sequence earns respect, and noise, from both corners. As the round winds down, Holmes keeps peppering from range, punctuating her combinations with body kicks and crisp left hands. Kane lands a stiff right cross in the closing seconds, but the horn sounds before she can build on it. A strong opening round for Serenity Holmes with high output, clean connections, and command of range. Kane looks composed, but through five minutes, the challenger’s pace is undeniable.
ROUND TWO: When the second round begins, there’s a subtle shift in Kane’s demeanor. She’s still calm, but more assertive in her posture. She’s reading Serenity now, recognizing the timing of those darting entries and lateral exits. The challenger opens with another crisp three-punch combination, ending with a low kick that slaps against Kane’s lead leg. This time, though, Kane checks it and fires back immediately with a front kick that stiff arms Serenity in the chest, forcing her to reset. Kane begins to impose her rhythm. Not by volume, but by presence. Her kicks come out with surgical precision now. A teep to the belly, a calf kick, then a spinning back kick that whistles past Serenity’s midsection. Holmes is still landing, but her shots are less clean. Every time she darts in with that straight left, Kane’s guard is there to meet it. Midway through the round, Kane lands a stiff jab-cross, then ducks under a looping counter and shoots in on a double leg. Serenity defends initially, sprawling wide, but Kane chains it into a trip and briefly drags her to a knee. Serenity bounces back up, but she’s forced to eat a knee to the body on the break. Holmes answers in kind, firing a flurry that gets the crowd roaring again. A left hand sneaks through and Kane’s head jolts. Not rocked, but tested. The challenger keeps pouring on, unleashing a furious series of hooks and kicks, trying to overwhelm the veteran. Kane stays disciplined, blocking and rolling with most of the shots, then fires back with a side kick to the liver that audibly echoes. Holmes winces for the first time, her breathing deepening. The tempo evens out as the round wears on. Kane is controlling range now, intercepting with body kicks and the occasional step-in elbow. Holmes remains dangerous, snapping Kane’s head back with a straight left late in the round, but she’s working harder for every opening. You can see her chest rising faster between exchanges, the cost of that first round sprint starting to collect. In the final twenty seconds, Kane punctuates her best round yet by catching a body kick and sweeping Holmes off balance, then diving in with a short flurry from top control before the horn sounds. It’s not dominant, but it’s authoritative. Through two, the scorecards feel split. Serenity’s volume and early success weighed against Kane’s growing control and tactical precision. The champion’s beginning to turn the tide.
ROUND THREE: The third round begins with the kind of tension that only championship level adjustments can produce. Both fighters know the score is tight. Holmes still brimming with energy but starting to show a flicker of fatigue, Kane locked in and methodical, the veteran gears of her game fully engaged. Serenity opens with urgency, pressing forward behind her jab and straight left, peppering the body before snapping a kick to the inside leg. Kane absorbs it, steps into the pocket, and lands a sharp right hand over the top. It’s the first time she’s truly halted Holmes’ forward pressure. Holmes circles out and resets, refusing to be bullied into retreat. She flicks her jab again, feinting high, then digs a hook to the ribs. Kane doesn’t flinch. She takes a half step back, draws Serenity in, and fires a teep that catches her flush on the solar plexus. The challenger grimaces but refuses to yield, answering with a spinning back fist that glances across Kane’s cheek. The crowd explodes, not because of the damage, but because both women are standing in the fire, refusing to give ground. Midway through, Kane begins targeting the body in earnest. Her front kicks dig deeper, her right hand finds the sternum, and every time Serenity loads up, the champion meets her with intercepting strikes that slow her rhythm. Holmes is still dangerous, still twitching with movement and creativity, but her combinations are coming in bursts now instead of sustained flurries. Kane senses it. She starts cutting the cage, forcing Serenity toward the fence, where she clinches and lands a heavy knee up the middle. Holmes tries to turn out, but Kane traps an underhook and begins to grind with a short elbow, a shoulder strike, and a thudding knee to the thigh. It’s the kind of gritty, attritional work that doesn’t draw oohs from the crowd but drains the challenger’s reserves. Serenity breaks free with a left hand that clips the champion, but Kane eats it, marches forward, and returns fire with a right high kick that narrowly misses. In the final thirty seconds, both fighters dig deep. Holmes finds one last burst, stringing together a four-punch combo capped with a head kick that grazes Kane. The champion nods, then counters with a crisp one-two down the pipe, punctuating the exchange with a calf kick that sweeps Holmes off balance. When the horn sounds, both women stand chest to chest, breathing heavy, eyes locked. It’s becoming clear that Kane’s composure and precision are beginning to chip away at Serenity’s relentless pace. If the first two rounds were a sprint, this one was the pivot where experience began to tilt the balance.
ROUND FOUR: The championship rounds begin with a subtle shift in tempo. Serenity Holmes, who opened the fight like a storm, now looks more deliberate. Not so much cautious, but measured. Her eyes are fixed on Kane, searching for angles, while the champion moves with that calm, almost predatory patience honed over years at the top. The early moments play out in the center. Holmes testing her jab, Kane returning fire with kicks to the body and oblique, both women trading in bursts of brilliance. Holmes finds early success, dipping under a right hand and countering with a left straight that snaps Kane’s head back. She follows with a right hook to the body, then a low kick that cracks with intent. The crowd rises as Holmes builds momentum. This is her rhythm, the southpaw dance of pressure and precision, but Kane, ever the tactician, doesn’t panic. She raises her guard, eats the shots on her forearms, and answers with a spinning back kick to the midsection that halts Holmes dead in her tracks. From there, the champion starts dismantling the challenger’s base. Every advance is met with a kick to the thigh, to the ribs, or to the lead leg. Holmes tries to time one, looking to counter over the top, but Kane feints low and drives a straight right down the pipe, splitting the guard. It’s not a fight ending shot, but it changes the conversation. Holmes backs up, breathing a little heavier, her combinations losing some sting. Sensing control, Kane closes the distance and initiates the clinch. This is where experience shows. She digs her forehead into Holmes’ jawline, frames with her right arm, and delivers a series of short, thudding knees to the body. Serenity struggles to pummel for underhooks, but Kane’s leverage and balance are suffocating. When Holmes finally circles off, she eats an elbow on the break that draws a thin trickle of blood from her cheek. In the final minute, Holmes tries to rally with a flurry of punches, a head kick, anything to steal back the round, but Kane reads each attempt, slipping just outside range and countering with precision. A right hand finds its mark, followed by a left hook to the liver that visibly wilts Holmes. The challenger grits through it, swinging wide, but Kane ties her up again, pressing her against the fence until the horn sounds. As they return to their corners, the narrative has shifted. Holmes’ explosiveness is fading while Kane’s composure and championship mettle are taking over. The crowd feels it too, the slow, deliberate pull of a veteran turning back the storm.
ROUND FIVE: The air in the United Center feels thick now, the kind of tension that only a fifth round title fight can conjure. Serenity Holmes comes off her stool breathing hard, her face marked by the champion’s precision, but her eyes still burn with belief. Across from her, Marissa Kane looks like a woman who has walked this road many times before. Steady. Unflinching. Focused. The crowd roars as the final round begins, both women stepping into the center like it’s a matter of destiny. Holmes is first to strike, flicking a jab to mask the left hand that follows. It lands clean, a reminder that she still has fire. She presses forward, firing a low kick and then a high one, forcing Kane to block high. The challenger swings in combination, landing a right hook before slipping away. Kane stays patient, tracking her movement, and when Holmes circles out, the champion fires a long body kick that lands flush. It’s a gut check reminder of her control. Kane begins to take command of the space. Her stance widens, her hands relaxed, eyes locked on Holmes’ chest. She checks a kick, fires back with a front kick to the midsection, then ducks under a wild left hand and changes levels, timing the takedown perfectly. The crowd erupts as she plants Holmes on the mat with authority, landing in half guard. Holmes scrambles immediately, using her hips and underhooks to create motion, but Kane’s pressure is relentless. Every escape is met with a counter. Holmes tries to shrimp out. Kane slides to side control. Holmes rolls but Kane rides the transition, floating with precision. The champion peppers short elbows and punches, not hunting for a finish but sending a clear message. Holmes shows incredible heart, working her way back to her knees, but Kane drags her back down, cinching a body lock and riding her against the fence. The final minute turns into a testament to will. Holmes, refusing to go quietly, posts up and fires elbows backward. Kane absorbs them, slips to the back, and threatens a choke just long enough to sap the last reserves of energy. When they finally break with seconds left, the crowd rises to its feet as Holmes throws one last desperate flurry. Punches in bunches, wild but defiant. Kane smiles through them, landing a counter elbow in the closing exchange before the last remaining seconds tick away.
The final horn echoes through the sold out United Center, a wall of sound that drowns out everything else. Kane and Holmes lean against the cage, chests heaving, bodies battered but unbowed. The arena shakes with the collective roar of fans who have witnessed something electric. A war fought in five brutal, beautiful rounds. Holmes left nothing on the floor, forcing the champion to dig deep, to summon every ounce of poise, experience, and instinct that has carried her through countless battles.
The ringside physicians step forward, methodical and precise, but there’s no urgent intervention needed. After a few tense moments, they retreat, leaving the fighters to gather once more in the center of the octagon. The air is thick with sweat, anticipation, and the scent of blood, a tangible reminder of the fight’s intensity.
MIKE DEMPSEY: “Ladies and gentlemen, after five rounds, we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision. The judges score this contest 48-47, 48-47, and 49-46, declaring the winner by unanimous decision, AAAAAND STIIIIILL the undisputed Union Grand Prix Bantamweight Champion of the World, Marissa “Murder Queen” Kane!”
Kane stands tall, her expression a mix of exhaustion and quiet triumph. Tested, bloodied, and pushed to the edge, she remains unbroken. Dante Reed steps in, sliding the championship belt over her shoulder, a tangible symbol of dominance. Across the cage, Holmes nods, a gesture of respect earned, of battle shared, and Kane returns it. A fleeting, mutual acknowledgment of what they’ve just endured.
As the fighters separate to their corners, the crowd continues its roar, lingering on every punch, every scramble, every moment that defined this fight. The commentators break down the action, and the visual display rolls across the feed, numbers and stats capturing the violence of a championship contest that will be remembered long after.
Winner: Marissa Kane by Unanimous Decision
Statistics: Marissa Kane
Punches 127/212 (60%)
Kicks 46/78 (59%)
Clinch Strikes 21/31 (68%)
Takedowns 6/10 (60%)
GnP Strikes 37/55 (67%)
Submissions 3/4 (75%)
Clinch Attempts 8/11 (73%)
Time on the Ground 284 s
Statistics: Serenity Holmes
Punches 119/206 (58%)
Kicks 53/90 (59%)
Clinch Strikes 16/27 (59%)
Takedowns 1/4 (25%)
GnP Strikes 10/18 (56%)
Submissions 2/3 (67%)
Clinch Attempts 5/9 (56%)
Time on the Ground 284 s
Under the bright lights of the United Center, Marissa Kane stood in the center of the cage, gold wrapped around her waist and emotion heavy in her voice. She began by thanking the roaring Chicago crowd, calling the experience of headlining Union GP’s seven year anniversary card “truly special” and a night she would never forget. The energy, the history, and the stakes. All of it, she said, reminded her why she returned to the sport in the first place.
Kane gave a nod of deep respect to Serenity Holmes, calling her “a phenomenal athlete and a real martial artist.” She praised Serenity’s heart and skill, saying she had pushed her to dig deep and show every ounce of experience she’s gained over her storied career. “I have little doubt we’ll cross paths again,” she added, a testament to the competitive fire that burned through five grueling rounds.
It wasn’t long before Kane turned her attention to what lies ahead. She said her comeback wasn’t just about reclaiming gold, it was about chasing and extending greatness. “When I came back, I promised myself I’d test myself against the very best,” she declared. “That means not just champions, but legends in the making.”
With her eyes forward, Kane began calling names. Gianna Howard. CC Flynn. Victoria Marshall. “These are the women building legacies, and I want to be part of that story,” she said. Then, with a knowing smile, she added that she’s also keeping an eye on the next generation, fighters like Morgan LeChance and Meigui Blackman. “The game keeps evolving, and I want to evolve with it,” Kane said. “This is the next chapter of my career and I’m ready to lead from the front.”
The crowd roared as she raised her belt high as a champion not just of the past, but one determined to write a new future.
The camera pans wide over the roaring United Center, the crowd still buzzing from a night of unforgettable battles. Confetti drifts gingerly through the air, catching the arena lights as the final moments of UGP 70 linger on screen. Fighters, cornermen, and officials move through the cage, embracing, exchanging congratulations, and savoring the intensity of the night.
A highlight of Marissa Kane’s championship belt gleams under the spotlight, Sadie Williams pumps her fists one last time for the Chicago crowd, and Zion Momo’a stands triumphant, chest heaving, the middleweight strap resting heavy across his shoulders. The arena is a mix of cheers, chants, and the occasional muted sighs from the defeated.
The camera slowly cuts between lingering shots of the fighters’ elation, the ecstatic fans, and the glimmering lights of the octagon, before settling on a final wide angle shot of the arena. The Union GP star logo flashes across the screen as the streaming feed begins to fade, the voices of Bodie Sullivan and Kayla Chapman giving one last nod to the night’s drama, the competition, and the unforgettable moments etched into the history of Union Grand Prix.
As the feed darkens, the sense is clear. This was a statement night. Champions were tested, legends were made, and the stage was set for the next chapter in UGP history.
