Igniting the Fuse: Dmitry's Breaking Point
Is this surprising? Of course not. After a short vacation in Korea, I headed to the US with Young-hoon thanks to Bruce Newman's invitation. We landed in San Francisco, and I first sent Young-hoon off to the gym. Then I went to meet Bruce.
When I arrived at the podcast studio, Bruce showed me the questions he had lined up. We tweaked them a little, then dove straight into filming. He parked me off to the side and started solo for a bit. Bruce covers MMA news straight-up, and he's carving out a solid rep in the scene that no one can ignore anymore. He kicked off normal enough, then smoothly segued into talking about me.
"Big shake-up in the WFC Light Heavyweight rankings, right? And we've got the man at the center of it—the Korean Monster."
"Long time no see~"
"Who do we have here? The WFC Light Heavyweight champ challenger himself?"
I caught his gesture to sit and dropped into the chair, opening my mouth.
"You know this is the last freebie for Common, right?"
"Can't help it—everyone's dying to know who you really are."
At some point, I stopped even glancing at articles about myself. So I had no real gauge on my popularity stateside. I wasn't that famous. WFC's profile wouldn't skyrocket until someone like Conor Travers wrapped the belt around his waist. Sure, my personal SNS crushed most athletes' reach, but still.
"Takes me back to the first time I saw you. Everyone in boxing was buzzing—unprecedented prodigy and all that."
"That shoot was fun, yeah."
"That line you dropped back then? It's blowing up SNS lately. You know it?"
"What line was that?"
"Something about boxing failing to prove it's the world's strongest."
"Ah~"
Bruce had become a heavyweight journalist in MMA circles you couldn't dismiss. But this question felt a tad like Brown had slipped him some cash under the table. Brown was obsessed with needling boxing these days.
"We've got this guy Colin on our team."
"Supernova in boxing, right?"
"When he first rolled into our gym? Straight-up street thug vibes. Never seen a thicker skull in my life."
"Wait, Colin? The guy who doesn't even flinch?"
I had no idea Colin was rated like that. It was so absurd I just let out a dry laugh.
"Step into the Octagon, and everyone's eyeing you like they wanna devour you alive."
"..."
"Usually, after a minute or two of eating shots, that glare fades."
"Not Colin?"
"Nah, his killer instinct just built up more and more. My face was getting smashed in, and I could feel the murder in his eyes. My mentor always said it—physical talent ain't the only thing you're born with."
Random boxing talk, but Bruce was locked in, listening hard.
"We're hunting for that pure obsession bordering on madness, no matter what."
"So Team Monster's full of those types?"
I nodded with a grin.
"Team Monster doesn't touch 'hungry spirit' types. Anyone chasing money turns into a pig after one taste."
Young-hoon trains like a maniac just to stand tall by my side—that weird, singular goal. Not for cash, but purely because he wants to be there. That's how he grinds through it all.
"Shall we move on to Dmitry? Saw that prayer pic he posted recently. What do you think he was praying for?"
"'Lord, send one more up' or some shit?"
"Hahaha."
Dmitry could bolt any second. That's why I'd been poking him just enough to stoke the hate.
"Making the sign of the cross before fights is ridiculous. What’s he thinking? Imagining himself as a crusader?"
He knew he'd triggered me and backed off a step. Or maybe it was a dare to try him.
"Christianity puts a big emphasis on marriage, right? 'Thou shalt not commit adultery' means no relations outside marriage."
"Hmm..."
"But knocking up a girlfriend without even getting engaged? Tsk. Dodging responsibility like it's natural—and his dad's a pastor, yeah?"
I kept it factual, laced with mild curiosity. Dmitry didn't even do SNS. Afraid it'd trash his dad's church? Hope I'd hit his reverse scale hard.
After wrapping the shoot, I swung by the gym for training. My fight day loomed, so off to Las Vegas. I fought here so often, maybe time to snag a second house. Quiet Dmitry on SNS was a little unnerving. Had he sniffed out my grappling? If he suddenly tested hot for drugs or faked an injury to bail, it'd be dicey. To shake off the worry, I focused on altitude training.
Time flew, and the press conference kicked off the promo hype.
Suited up top to bottom, I strode into the conference room and shoved the door open. Dmitry was already seated, champion belt propped on the table, eyes locked on me. Not the "I'm gonna crush you" glare—way too calm. My swagger loosened up; I fished gum from my pocket and chomped it loud.
Slowly sank into the ready chair, propped my feet on the table. A reporter shot his hand up right as I sat—guess they were mid-flow. I flicked my gaze his way; he grabbed the mic and fired.
"How've you prepped for this title match?"
"Prep? What for? Already figured out Light Heavyweight's a bubble without me."
Dmitry couldn't hold back, jumping in.
"There's shit you say and shit you don't."
"What's off-limits? Your church?"
His image was the sportsmanlike young prodigy fighter now—not the troublemaker Shiki. No real hook to rattle him. Still, I wanted him resenting me. Hell, wishing he'd kill me. That'd keep the belt on the line and drag him into the Octagon.
Pre-regression folks hated my arrogance anyway. Playing villain and eating shit online? Zero fucks given.
"Or your girlfriend popping out your kid without even an engagement—dodging that responsibility?"
"....."
His eyes flooded with murder the second I finished. A reporter, sensing the vibe, raised his hand.
"H-how do you see your opponent, the Korean Monster?"
"His punches and kicks'll threaten me plenty. But he belongs in a kickboxing org, not MMA. Kid's got nothing."
Dmitry kept staring me down, unrelenting.
"Ain't no way you stop me."
Pure confidence in his eyes, zero doubt he was MMA's absolute king. Fresh take. That's why they called him WFC legend despite the drama.
"Every ounce of effort to climb here? Total waste of your life."
I met his stone-cold stare. Reporters wanted my clapback to his cockiness—the room went dead quiet, chilly.
Bored expression, I gripped the mic and scanned the crowd.
"I'll be different. Gonna beat the bad habits out of that little shit. Kill you. Prove it in the Octagon."
"....."
"Same old routine's getting stale. Won't even take a minute inside to face reality."
"You've never faced a near-perfect all-rounder."
"You're not perfect—you're just meh across the board."
Dmitry's style: latch onto any weakness and never let go. Can't find one? Drag it out. So I had to give him a reason to never duck this fight. Kept the mic, opened up again.
"You like your booze, huh."
"Cut the bullshit. You'll regret it in the Octagon anyway."
"Just curious. Why so sensitive?"
"Can't even listen to others—mommy raised you right, huh."
Dmitry, same age as Colin who was seven years my senior. Hit him with church, and he swings straight for my mom. Thinks it'll rile me? Mom already gave me a pass 'cause of my job. But playing the "can't take mom insults" kid? Solid image.
He swung first at my mom, so time to unload.
"...? Did I hear that wrong?"
"Why not hold mommy's hand and hit up the ENT doc?"
"Haha, parental disses roll off natural. Bet I know how she raised her daughter."
With what I did to Malloy and now mentioning his kid, the vibe plunged ice-cold.
"But no engagement as a Korean? Doesn't compute. Normal in America?"
"....."
America's full of cohabiting folks with out-of-wedlock kids. But not in a Christian family. Pure bait to scratch.
"Ain't a girlfriend—just a fuckhouse, right? Three kids? Three uses..."
A black blur shot past me fast. I whipped my head.
Wham!Beeeep!!!
Dmitry bolted up and charged me.
"I'll kill you, you little shit."
His eyes screamed mission accomplished—raw, primal rage only.
He flipped the table rushing me; I stood. No real beef with him. Skill gets recognition. Story pulls eyes. Kinda got why Conor Travers chased Faber. Had to scratch him enough to etch "pussy if he dodges."
Properly pissed Dmitry? Not bad. Brown blocking him looked pitiful. So I spat my chewed gum right in his hyped-up face.
Ptoo.
Gum smacked his face; murder hung thick. Unable to contain it, Dmitry shoved Brown hard and lunged, fist flying. Slipped the jab with just upper-body movement, then the deep straight with a duck. Aimed an uppercut into the perfect void—but staff piled on late, restraining him.
Thud!
Four dudes tackled him down. I looked down smiling.
"Let me go!!!"
"Wooooah!!!"
Roars like it was fight night. Snagged the fallen champ belt, slung it over my shoulder. Posed camera-perfect, grabbed the mic.
"Can't even hold your belt—future's looking clear. Suits you, huh?"
"Enough!"
Brown reining me in from more pokes. Dmitry gearing up again from behind. Flashed him a smile, wiped the belt on my palm.
"I swear on God, I'll kill you!"
"Huh?"
No belt back, dragged out. Stuck my tongue out, flipped the bird.
"Stoooop!"
This point, with balls attached, no dodging. But that glare as he retreated... this ain't gonna be a sport anymore.