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The simulated fighter\'s control was absolute, every grip ironclad, every transition seamless.

The feeling of hopelessness that Damon had was wearing him down.

But he wasn\'t ready to give up.

Damon refocused and took a deep breath to try to slow down his rushing thoughts.

He recalled something Kru Somchai had drilled into him repeatedly \'Don\'t fight the opponent\'s game. Make him play yours\'

Forcing himself to relax, Damon waited, allowing Chemasov to apply pressure, feigning exhaustion.

He noticed the slightest opening in Chemasov\'s stance, just a small, almost imperceptible gap as he shifted his weight to readjust.

It was barely there, but it was enough.

He used his legs as support and pushed his hips up with all his strength. He was able to twist just enough to surprise Chemasov.

In that brief, rare moment, Damon rolled out from under him, finally breaking free from the crushing weight.

Anxiety rushed through him as he jumped to his feet. For the first time since the fight started, he felt like he had some control.

Chemasov, unfazed, turned to face him, his expression unreadable.

Even though his muscles were burning and his heart was frantic, Damon stood his ground and felt a surge of new energy.

He\'d caught Chemasov off guard once. Maybe he could do it again.

Chemasov lunged, and this time, Damon anticipated it, sidestepping at the last second and slipping behind him, locking his arms around Chemasov\'s waist.

He braced himself, determined not to let this chance slip.

He tightened his grip, digging his feet into the mat to anchor himself, attempting to gain control over Chemasov\'s posture.

He felt a little bit of control in his hands for the first time since the fight started.

But just as Damon\'s confidence surged, he was swiftly humbled.

Chemasov\'s body moved quickly and smoothly, and before Damon could respond, his opponent switched positions completely.

Damon\'s grip slipped as Chemasov expertly broke free, using Damon\'s own hold against him.

In a blink, Chemasov dropped his weight, twisting around to hook Damon\'s leg while pulling him down to the mat in a seamless takedown.

Damon hit the ground hard, a rush of air escaping his lungs as Chemasov instantly established control, pinning Damon\'s shoulders with unrelenting pressure.

Damon struggled, trying to buck Chemasov off, but his opponent\'s weight was solid, like an anchor.

Every small movement Damon made was countered with a precision that left him feeling almost helpless.

Chemasov\'s grip tightened around Damon\'s arm, applying enough pressure to hint at a submission, and Damon could feel the strain as he tried to resist.

His earlier sense of control evaporated, replaced by the hard reality that he was still far from matching Chemasov\'s skill on the ground.

Every tactic he tried to implement was thwarted, every ounce of strength countered effortlessly.

As the minutes ticked by, Damon felt his energy waning, his muscles protesting each movement.

Gritting his teeth, Damon accepted the hard truth.

There was no beating Chemasov... not yet, at least.

The brutal cycle continued.

Each attempt to gain control or even hold his ground was met with another swift takedown, another relentless submission, another reminder of his limits.

Damon had come to the simulation to improve, to learn, but the constant defeats were wearing on him.

Eventually, he slumped onto the mat, breath ragged as the Chemasov simulation faded into the white void.

The silence felt heavy.

Damon stared at the empty space where his simulated opponent had stood, feeling a bitterness rise within him.

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He knew losses were part of the process and that he was here to improve.

But it still stung.

He couldn\'t shake the feeling of defeat that clung to him, each failure echoing louder than the last.

Sitting alone on the mat, Damon took a deep breath, forcing himself to push the bitterness aside.

As Damon sat alone on the mat, he let out a long, thoughtful sigh. "I wonder what Victor\'s calling us for," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his face.

He stood up, stretching his arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pull in his sore muscles.

He thought about the options with a furrowed brow and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension from the spar that was still there. "Maybe the UFA called in for a match… nah, it\'s too early. Only yesterday," he mumbled, a small smirk crossing his face as he thought about the whirlwind of his recent victory.

Shaking off the last of his frustration, Damon took another deep breath, centering himself.

Damon wondered what time it was in the real world.

He\'d been in the simulation for what felt like hours, but he had no idea if time passed the same way or if there was some kind of difference.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, letting the scene dissolve. The gym shattered around him, fading away, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back in bed.

He sat up slowly, blinking as he adjusted to the darkness.

Through the window, he could see the faint outlines of the night sky, shadows cast across the room.

It was late, probably much later than he\'d realized. The quiet stillness outside felt grounding, pulling him fully back into reality.

When Damon had gone to bed to enter the Simulation, it had had been night, but it was still evening a bit.

At this point, though, the darkness in the room felt much darker, like it was really midnight.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes before standing up.

Due to the intensity of the spar, he somehow felt thirsty, his throat felt dry.

He walked quietly to the kitchen, where the floor was cool.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Damon saw the room was dark, but the faint light through the window revealed a figure standing by the counter.

He approached slowly, noticing the person\'s quiet posture, the way they seemed lost in thought.

As he got closer, he recognized her blonde hair.

It was Ashley.