Chapter 5 - The Weigh-In
The day before the fight, the Grand Ballroom of the Chicago Hilton was packed with hundreds of journalists, camera crews, and screaming fans.
The stage was set for the official weigh-in. Mason Cole arrived with an entourage of ten people—trainers, security personnel, and social media influencers carrying cameras on gimbal stabilizers. Mason was shirtless, flexing his sculpted physique for the crowd, shouting insults toward the empty side of the stage.
"Where is he?!" Mason yelled into the crowd, beating his chest. "Is the old man getting his diaper changed?!"
The crowd roared with rowdy laughter.
Then, the side entrance opened.
Thomas walked onto the stage accompanied only by David Chen. Thomas wore a simple black warm-up suit. He looked small compared to the massive LED screens showing Mason’s highlight reels behind him, but his step was firm, his head held high.
"Step on the scale, Mr. Cole," the athletic commission official announced.
Mason stepped up. "175 pounds! Championship weight! Pure steel!" he roared, turning to flex directly in Thomas’s face.
Thomas stepped onto the scale next. His expression remained entirely impassive.
"162 pounds," the official declared.
Mason immediately stepped up, crowding into Thomas’s personal space, getting so close that his breath hit Thomas’s cheek.
"Look at you," Mason sneered, lowering his voice so only Thomas could hear. "You're frail. You're small. Tomorrow night, I’m going to hit you so hard your dead son is going to feel it."
The comment was designed to provoke a reckless, emotional response—to make the old man swing early, lose control, and get fined or disarmed.
Thomas didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He raised his eyes and looked straight through Mason Cole’s eyes, as if looking at a ghost that didn't even exist.
"You have your father's mouth, Mason," Thomas said softly, his voice carrying clearly beneath the noise of the venue. "And very soon, you will have his failure."
Mason’s smirk wavered. For a split second, a wave of instinctual fear hit Mason—a primal warning signal telling him that the man standing in front of him was not prey.
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Grant Cole quickly stepped up, pulling Mason back toward their team. "Save it for the ring, Mason," Grant muttered, though Grant’s own eyes were darting nervously toward David Chen, who was watching Grant with a razor-sharp, knowing smile.
The face-off ended, but the tension hanging over Chicago was now tight enough to snap steel.
