The screen inside the stadium looped the slam again, Damon's German suplex from round two.
The angle showed Alex's body folding mid-air, his legs high, his shoulders crashing into the canvas. The crowd's reaction played beneath it, replay after replay.
Then the knockout kick.
That final exchange was now frozen in time on screens around the arena. Damon pulling the lead hand down, slipping the grip just long enough to clear a path.
Then the shin came up clean, cracked into the side of Alex's head. It was very sudden.
Damon sat on the stool, gulping water from the bottle Victor handed him. The noise around the cage was deafening, but he didn't say anything.
He just looked up briefly as the replays played again, eyes locked on the screen for a second before shifting back down.
Victor laughed as he leaned over. "That lead hand pull into a head kick? Jesus, that's cold."
