In Las Vegas, on the top floor of the UFC Headquarters, the atmosphere was so heavy that it felt as though the air itself might drip with tension.
Dana White's normally gleaming bald head appeared dull under the dim light. He tugged at his silk tie, unbuttoned his designer shirt collar — a shirt worth thousands of dollars — but still felt suffocated.
Around him sat the UFC's Chief Operating Officer, General Counsel, and Head of Public Relations, each of them silent, their faces tight with anxiety.
On the large wall-mounted screen, breaking news flashed one after another from media outlets around the world. Each headline was more disastrous than the last:
> "Ireland's Pride Tarnished? Conor McGregor Deeply Entangled in Sexual Assault Allegations!"
"Fight of the Century in Jeopardy — UFC Faces Its Biggest Crisis Yet!"
"Police Investigation Confirmed — McGregor's New York Trip Suspended!"
"Fuck!" Dana finally exploded, slamming his fist down on the mahogany desk. The coffee cup bounced, nearly spilling over.
"That damned Irish idiot!" he shouted. "I gave him everything — the world, fame, money, the chance to become a legend! And this is how he pays me back? By screwing it all up with this garbage?"
He turned sharply toward the blond man sitting to his left. "Lawrence," Dana snapped, "what's the situation? What can we do?"
Lawrence, the General Counsel, adjusted his glasses before replying grimly. "It's bad, Dana. Very bad. According to our legal team in Dublin, the woman's testimony and the evidence she provided are extremely compelling. This is no longer a civil matter. The police have upgraded it to a criminal case and have officially opened an investigation."
Dana's expression darkened further. "What exactly does that mean?"
"It means," Lawrence said heavily, "Conor could be summoned at any moment, or even restricted from leaving Ireland. Forget about fighting in New York — the question now is whether he can even remain free. We have to activate the contingency plan immediately."
Dana leaned back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. He didn't need the lawyer to explain further. He knew exactly what "contingency plan" meant.
It meant that UFC 205's main event, the one that had cost hundreds of millions to promote and had been billed as 'The Greatest Fight in History,' was already dead.
He took a deep breath, then spoke coldly and decisively. "PR department — issue a statement. Keep it vague. Say, 'We're closely monitoring the situation and will withhold judgment until official results are released. We continue to believe in Conor's innocence.'"
He leaned forward, his tone sharp. "We need to calm the media — and those damned sponsors — before this thing blows up any further."
Then he snatched up the internal phone and barked into it. "Sean! Get Shelby on the line! Initiate Plan B, immediately! Contact everyone in the top five of the Lightweight Division — Khabib, Ferguson, Barboza — I don't care who! Find out who can be ready in three weeks for a title fight in New York. No matter what it costs, I need to save the 205 main event!"
Instantly, the UFC Headquarters, a corporate machine normally running with flawless precision, descended into chaos.
Phones rang off the hook. Executives shouted into headsets. Assistants sprinted between offices with papers in hand. Every department worked frantically to patch a sinking ship that was going down faster than anyone could stop it.
But fate, as always, moved faster than plans.
Just three weeks before the fight, the worst happened.
Ireland's police, after gathering sufficient evidence, issued a formal summons for Conor McGregor.
Several uniformed officers appeared at the entrance of the SBG gym in Dublin. In front of flashing cameras and a horde of reporters, they escorted the Irish superstar into a police car.
The footage — broadcast live online — spread across the globe like wildfire.
And with it, the dream of UFC 205's "Fight of the Century" went up in flames.
---
San Jose, California
Across the ocean, in a quiet gym in San Jose, Yogan had just finished an intense sparring session. Sweat soaked through his training shorts, his chest heaving like a bellows. His eyes, however, gleamed with a razor-sharp light — the fire of a predator ready for the hunt.
Every fiber of his being had been tuned to perfection. His body, his timing, his reflexes — all primed for one thing: Conor McGregor.
Then Isabella Rossi, his manager, walked into the gym. Her expression was grave. She silently handed him her phone.
Yogan wiped his hands on a towel and took it. On the screen was the live broadcast — Conor being led away in handcuffs.
For a few seconds, he simply stared. Then the fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by cold fury.
"That idiot…" he muttered under his breath.
All those months of grueling preparation, the hours of sparring, the strategy sessions, the sweat, the blood — all aimed at that one fight — now felt meaningless.
He clenched his jaw. Everything he had worked for was being stolen from him — not by a superior fighter, but by his opponent's own stupidity.
"That bastard ruined everything," he growled.
With his heart pounding, he grabbed his own phone and opened social media. His fingers flew across the screen as he typed out a message that would shake the MMA world:
> "I was ready to finish you in the Octagon, in front of the world.
I didn't expect you to finish yourself outside it.
Conor McGregor, you are no warrior — you're a slave to your own desires.
Men like you should be locked away, reflecting on your disgrace.
Stop defiling this great sport."
He hit Post.
The message exploded across the internet within minutes.
But even after releasing his rage, the anger still burned inside him. Yogan couldn't accept that months of sacrifice would simply vanish. He couldn't let down the millions of fight fans who had waited to see him step into the cage.
So he made another decision.
Still dripping with sweat, Yogan turned on his phone's camera, hit record, and stared straight into the lens. His voice was deep, steady, and filled with raw intensity.
> "Dana. Sean. Listen carefully.
Since that clown can't make it to the Octagon, let's bring in the next champion.
Tyron Woodley. The Welterweight Champion.
Three weeks. That's all I need.
Let's make history, right now.
Don't give me excuses. A real champion is always ready to fight."
Then he ended the recording and posted it immediately.
The effect was electric.
The MMA world, which had been drowning in disappointment, suddenly roared back to life. Fans flooded social media with excitement and hope. Hashtags like #YoganVsWoodley and #SaveUFC205 began trending worldwide within hours.
Comments poured in from fans:
> "Do it, Woodley! Save the event!"
"Yogan is the real deal — a true warrior!"
"This fight could be even bigger than McGregor's!"
Yet, amid the chaos, Tyron Woodley and his management remained calm.
After a short internal discussion, Woodley's agent, Malki Kawa, released an official statement through North America's largest MMA news outlet:
> "We respect Yogan and his challenge. The significance of this fight cannot be overstated.
However, we must decline at this time. Tyron has been training according to his Welterweight schedule.
Attempting to cut weight and prepare for a super fight in just three weeks could cause irreversible damage to his body.
The fight deserves both athletes to perform at their absolute best — for the fans and for the sport."
It was a calm, measured, and irrefutable response — one that silenced the loudest critics.
Still, the fans refused to let the spark die. Petitions, hashtags, and YouTube reaction videos exploded across platforms. Even mainstream news picked up the story, calling it "The Fight That Might Have Saved the UFC."
For Yogan, though, none of that mattered.
He sat quietly in the darkened gym, the glow of his phone lighting up his face. His muscles ached, his mind raced, but his heart was unwavering.
He had trained for war — and even if the battlefield had vanished,
the warrior in him refused to rest.
In that silence, Yogan whispered to himself,
> "The fight isn't over. It just hasn't started yet."
give my full efforts to you all make happy but you guys did not support me even in small ways. im very exhausted.🫠more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)