If you want to be the best, you've got to beat the best. The only

Host: The arena was empty now, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the faint smell of sweat, blood, and dust — the perfume of ambition. The mat beneath the ring still carried the marks of a brutal match — footprints, sweat stains, the story of two men who had left pieces of themselves there hours ago.

Jack sat at the edge of the ring, hands taped, jaw bruised, a faint cut tracing along his cheekbone. His eyes were sharp, alive with that dangerous electricity that only comes after victory. Jeeny leaned against the ropes, still in her trainer’s jacket, her hair tied back, her expression unreadable — the calm after the storm.

The scoreboard lights flickered off one by one, leaving the space awash in the kind of silence that only comes after too much noise.

Jeeny: softly “Donald Cerrone once said, ‘If you want to be the best, you’ve got to beat the best. The only problem is when I get that belt, who’s going to be left to fight? That’s what I want to know.’”

Host: The words floated between them like a ghost — half pride, half loneliness.

Jack: smirking, spitting blood into a towel “Yeah, Cerrone had it right. The top’s a lonely place. Everyone wants to climb, but no one thinks about what happens when you’re finally up there — and there’s no one left.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like victory’s a punishment.”

Jack: grinning tiredly “Isn’t it? You fight for years, bleed for it, sacrifice sleep, love, peace — and when you get there, when the crowd’s finally screaming your name… you realize you’ve got nowhere left to go.”

Jeeny: “You’ve got everywhere to go. You just stopped seeing beyond the belt.”

Host: Jack leaned back, resting his elbows on the ropes, the light glinting off the thin sheen of sweat on his neck. The arena’s emptiness felt heavy, like a mirror reflecting the hollowness beneath his triumph.

Jack: “The belt’s not just leather and gold, Jeeny. It’s proof. Proof that I’m not just another guy who tried and failed. Proof that I’m something.”

Jeeny: “Something what? Stronger? Smarter? Worth more? You think that belt changes what you are?”

Jack: “It changes everything.”

Jeeny: “Then it owns you.”

Host: The air between them tightened. Somewhere high above, the sound of a lone light buzzing filled the silence. Jack looked up — tired, defiant, but cracked.

Jack: “You don’t get it. Every fighter needs a mountain to climb. The fear isn’t in losing — it’s in not having another fight to wake up for. That’s what Cerrone meant. You reach the top, and suddenly, there’s no one left. Just you. And the echo of your own breathing.”

Jeeny: quietly “And that’s when you learn who you really are.”

Jack: snorts “You love your philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No. I love truth. And the truth is — greatness isn’t about beating others. It’s about conquering yourself.”

Host: She stepped closer, the sound of her shoes against the mat soft, deliberate. The faint glow from the ring lights reflected in her eyes like two calm fires.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack — what happens when you win your last fight? When you’ve beaten everyone who matters?”

Jack: grinning darkly “You start fighting ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Or you stop fighting altogether.”

Jack: “You really think a man like me can stop?”

Jeeny: gently “I think a man like you can learn why he started.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as the arena’s janitor began his rounds in the distance, sweeping debris — torn posters, empty cups, the remnants of glory — into a quiet heap.

Jack: with a faint laugh “You know what the worst part of winning is? It doesn’t last. You wake up the next day, and it’s gone. The roar, the fire, the need. You spend your whole life chasing a feeling that disappears before you can hold it.”

Jeeny: “Then stop chasing it. Start living it.”

Jack: frowning “What’s that even mean?”

Jeeny: “It means stop measuring your worth by who you’ve beaten. Measure it by who you’ve become.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands — bruised, taped, trembling slightly. Hands that had built a life on pain and precision.

Jack: softly “You make it sound like winning’s a trap.”

Jeeny: “It can be — if the only thing you’re afraid of is being forgotten.”

Jack: staring into the empty seats “You think that’s what this is about? You think I fight because I want people to remember me?”

Jeeny: “Don’t you?”

Host: He didn’t answer. The silence was too loud.

Jeeny: “Cerrone fought because he loved it — the chaos, the test, the fear. But when he talked about running out of people to fight, he wasn’t afraid of boredom. He was afraid of peace.”

Jack: “Peace?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because peace forces you to face the one opponent you’ve been running from your whole life — yourself.”

Host: Jack stood, stretching his sore muscles, pacing the edge of the ring like a caged wolf.

Jack: “You think fighters are afraid of themselves?”

Jeeny: “The good ones are.”

Jack: grins “Then maybe I’m better than I thought.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe you’re closer to being free.”

Host: He laughed — low, weary, but real. The kind of laugh that comes when truth hits deeper than you expected.

Jack: “You talk like victory and freedom are two different things.”

Jeeny: “They are. Victory ends a fight. Freedom ends the need for one.”

Host: The lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the faint glow of the exit signs. The arena was silent, save for the distant hum of the world outside — traffic, life, the rhythm continuing without applause.

Jack sat again, his body heavy, but his mind finally still.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I watched old fighters on TV. I thought that belt meant they’d won everything. Now I think it just means they had the courage to keep losing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every win is just a doorway to another loss — if you’re brave enough to walk through it.”

Host: The wind from the open door rustled through, carrying a chill that felt clean, honest. Jack looked up at Jeeny, her silhouette glowing faintly against the exit light.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the answer to Cerrone’s question.”

Jeeny: “Which one?”

Jack: quietly “‘Who’s left to fight?’”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “The only one that ever mattered.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — slow, knowing, proud. She stepped down from the ring, offering him a hand.

Jeeny: “Then come on, champion. Let’s see if you can beat him.”

Jack: grinning faintly as he takes her hand “You mean me?”

Jeeny: “You always knew.”

Host: Together they walked out of the arena, their footsteps echoing through the vast, empty space — the sound of finality, and something new.

Outside, the night air was cold and vast, carrying the hum of the city — the applause of the unseen world. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, like torches lighting the path ahead.

Jeeny: “The best fights aren’t in the ring, Jack. They’re in the quiet — when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “And no one’s cheering.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know they’re real.”

Host: The arena door closed behind them, the sound echoing like a heartbeat. And as they disappeared into the night, Jack glanced once at his hands — bruised, scarred, but steady — and smiled.

He had beaten the best. But now, for the first time, he was ready to face the hardest fight of all: the one within.

And somewhere in the dark city beyond, victory finally felt like peace.