The Heartbeat of Pain

Each impact against the heavy bag sent shockwaves up Cade Mercer's arms. The dull, rhythmic thuds echoed through the empty training room like a heartbeat—steady, relentless, angry. Sweat cascaded down his face, burning his eyes, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

This wasn't like him—this unraveling, this display of raw emotion. Cade Mercer, the man who had been dubbed "The Juggernaut" for his methodical approach and unwavering composure. Yet here he was, hammering away at a bag like it had personally insulted his family.

The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the word that had been haunting him for days.

Scripted.

His jaw clenched as he landed another devastating blow. The bag swung violently, its chains creaking in protest.

"Is this how champions handle criticism?"

Clayton Reed's voice cut through Cade's concentration. The manager stood in the doorway, in his usual purple tailored suit—a stark contrast to the gritty, sweat-soaked training room. His expression betrayed nothing, but his eyes widened slightly at the unusual sight of Cade's barely contained fury.

"You read it." It wasn't a question. Cade didn't look at Clayton, focusing instead on maintaining his rhythm against the bag. Left jab. Right cross. Left hook. Repeat. Anything to keep the mask from slipping further.

"Rico Vega’s been writing hit pieces and grasping for straws for years," Clayton said, his tone maddeningly calm as he stepped further into the room. "His opinions aren't worth the pixels they're printed on."

Cade finally stopped, grabbing the swinging bag to steady it. His chest heaved with exertion, but the fire in his eyes wasn't from physical exhaustion. Clayton had seen Cade through fifteen professional fights, through broken bones and split skin, and not once had he seen this look on his face.

"'Is Mercer really the guy? Or did the script just say so?'" Cade quoted bitterly, the words tasting like poison. The control he prided himself on—the calm, measured demeanor that had become his trademark—was fracturing visibly. "Not even one month, Clayton. I haven't been the champion for one month, and they're already saying I didn't earn it."

Clayton crossed the room with measured steps, surprised by this unprecedented crack in Cade's usually impenetrable composure. "And what do you say?"

"What do I—" Cade ripped off his gloves, launching them across the room where they smacked against the wall and slid to the floor. The uncharacteristic outburst hung in the air between them. Clayton stared. In three years, he had never seen Cade throw anything in anger.

"I've put everything into this! Trained 'til my body gave out, taken beatings, missed my best friend's funeral—all for this!" He jabbed a finger toward the championship belt resting on the bench, his chest rising and falling with frustration. "And now what? Some dirt sheet hack scribbles a few lines, and suddenly I'm a fraud? SFL's puppet?"

A placeholder. A fraud. A paper champion. The thoughts came unbidden, each one a knife twisting deeper, stripping away the stoic facade he had cultivated for years.

Clayton remained composed, though inwardly alarmed by this side of Cade he'd never witnessed. "You're letting him win by even acknowledging this."

"The whole damn roster will be talking about it," Cade snapped, pacing around the gym, his restless energy making it impossible to stand still. For a fighter known for his stillness, for his economy of movement, this frenetic energy was jarring. "I can feel it already—the side-eye, the whispers. The respect I fought for—vanishing because one asshole with a keyboard decided to question my legitimacy."

"And how does spiraling like this help?" Clayton asked, his voice taking on an edge for the first time. "You think proving you're mentally weak is going to silence those whispers? This isn't you, Cade."

Cade stopped pacing, the words landing like a slap. "I'm not weak."

"Then stop acting like it." Clayton moved closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me. PR nightmares are my specialty. This? This is nothing. But you letting it get to you? That's everything. I've never seen you like this, and frankly, it's more concerning than any article."

The observation hit home. Cade turned away, grabbing a towel to wipe his face, using the moment to recollect the pieces of his composure. His heart rate was finally slowing, but the anger remained—now directed partially at himself for this unprecedented loss of control.

"I can't have people thinking I didn't earn this," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning, struggling to find his way back to the disciplined fighter everyone expected him to be.

Clayton sighed, and for a moment, the calculated businessman facade cracked. "Kid, there will always be people questioning you. Champion or not. That's the price of success."

Cade looked up, surprised by the rare display of genuine emotion from his typically jovial manager. "You want to silence the doubt?" Clayton continued, tapping the championship belt with his finger. "Defend this. Dominate. Make them believe. Because the moment you start fighting to prove something to them instead of yourself—that's when you've already lost."

The words hung between them, heavy with truth. Cade exhaled slowly, feeling something shift inside him. The noise in his head hadn't disappeared, but it had quieted enough for him to think clearly again. The familiar calm began to return—that centered focus that had carried him through every challenge before this.

"Yeah," he nodded, straightening his shoulders, visibly pulling the fragments of his composure back together. "You're right."

Clayton studied him for a moment longer, relieved to see the familiar controlled demeanor returning, then satisfied, gave a curt nod. "Good. Now get some rest. Tomorrow, we focus on Kingdom Come. Let me worry about the media circus."

As Clayton turned to leave, his phone already in hand, Cade called after him. "Clayton."

His manager paused, looking back. "Thanks," Cade said simply, the word weighted with the acknowledgment of his momentary lapse.

Clayton's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Just doing my job." Then he was gone, leaving Cade alone with the still-swinging bag.

Cade approached his championship belt, running his fingers along the pristine metal plates. No history, no battle-worn marks—just untouched gold waiting to be defined. Now, it was his story to write.

Let them talk, he thought, his characteristic discipline reasserting itself, a new determination hardening within him like steel being forged. I'll give them something worth talking about.

Because Cade Mercer was nobody's paper champion. And soon, the whole world would know it.