The excitement in Minneapolis was palpable as WWE fans poured into the Target Center, eagerly awaiting the night's marquee match—Kurt Angle versus Rey Mysterio. Backstage, however, another kind of tension simmered, a tension that hadn't quite reached its breaking point, but threatened to do so at any moment. The energy backstage buzzed with the chaos of preparation—Superstars darting between lockers, production crew members setting up last-minute equipment, and catering bustling with activity as wrestlers grabbed quick meals before heading out to the ring.
In the midst of the controlled chaos, a delivery boy, barely out of place amid the towering athletes and roaring backstage personnel, wove his way through the crowd. In his hands, he clutched a modest brown paper bag, fragrant and warm from a local taco joint in the heart of Minneapolis. His mission? Deliver a meal to one Zlatan Ibrahimović.
The delivery boy hesitated, glancing around the crowded catering room, trying to spot the Swedish rookie. "Excuse me," he called out, his voice barely carrying over the din. "I'm looking for Mr. Ibrahimović. I've got an order of burritos for him."
Heads turned briefly, but before the boy could get his bearings, a figure stepped forward with a broad, mischievous grin—none other than Kurt Angle, decked out in his signature Team Angle hoodie, his Olympic Gold Medal still gleaming around his neck.
Kurt's eyes sparkled with mischief as he addressed the delivery boy. "Ibrahimović? Oh, you mean Zlatan?" he said, his tone casual but laden with amusement. "Don't worry, kid, I'll make sure he gets these."
The delivery boy, seeing Kurt's confident demeanor and unmistakable star power, nodded without hesitation. Who was he to question an Olympic Gold Medalist? He handed over the burritos, trusting that the towering Angle would deliver the goods to their rightful owner. After settling the payment and handing Kurt the receipt, the boy disappeared back through the throng, none the wiser.
Kurt, however, had no intention of being the delivery man tonight.
With a quick glance around the room, he tore open the paper bag, reaching inside for one of the burritos. The smell was tantalizing, and as he unwrapped the warm, soft tortilla, he took a hefty bite, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.
"This is some good stuff," Kurt mumbled, mouth half-full. His eyes momentarily flickered with suspicion, though. There was something slightly off about the taste—a spice or tang he couldn't quite place—but he dismissed it. After all, it was just a burrito, and even an Olympic Gold Medalist needed his fuel.
"Real nice, Kurt," Michael Cole's sarcastic voice echoed from the commentary booth, catching the moment from afar. "Helping yourself to Zlatan's burritos. That's one way to win a match."
Tazz, sitting next to him, chuckled. "Hey, even Olympic Gold Medalists need to eat, Cole. You've seen how many suplexes this guy throws in a match—he's gotta load up!"
Meanwhile, Kurt, unconcerned with what anyone thought, continued to munch his way through Zlatan's meal, savoring every bite. His eyes glanced around the room, but there was no sign of Zlatan anywhere. With a smug look on his face, he settled into his meal like a man who had just won a prize.
The room carried on around him, oblivious to the light-hearted theft taking place. Kurt leaned back against the wall, relaxing as he polished off the second burrito from the bag. The taste was still strange, but somehow, the satisfaction of the moment made up for it.
As the night in Minneapolis rolled on and the spotlight outside began to shine brighter, Kurt Angle, the Olympic hero, stood backstage, content and ready for his match with Rey Mysterio. But for now, he had another battle to win—against Zlatan's burritos.
And in this contest, Kurt was the undisputed champion.
The night was young, and there would be plenty more action to come—but for now, Angle took one last bite, grinning to himself as he savored the taste of his small, stolen victory.
XXXX
The familiar strains of Kurt Angle's theme music filled the arena, accompanied by the usual mix of cheers and boos from the WWE Universe. Minneapolis was on its feet, anticipating the fireworks that would inevitably follow whenever the Olympic Gold Medalist took to the microphone. As the music faded and the spotlight settled on the ring, Angle stood tall, microphone in hand, a gleam of confidence in his eyes.
He paced slowly in the center of the ring, taking his time, letting the tension build as the crowd quieted down. Tonight, Kurt had something on his mind, and everyone in the arena knew they were about to witness one of his infamous verbal beatdowns.
Kurt Angle raised the mic to his lips, his voice cutting through the hum of the crowd like a knife.
"Well, well, well…" He paused, his smirk widening as he relished the moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to talk about a certain individual who seems to have taken it upon himself to meddle in my affairs."
The crowd rumbled, sensing where this was going. Kurt's eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with disdain as he continued.
"Zlatan Ibrahimović," he sneered, "or should I say the Bosnian Croat of Malmö." He paused, letting the phrase hang in the air. "Quite the mouthful, isn't it?"
A ripple of reaction spread through the crowd—some boos, some murmurs of intrigue. Kurt had their attention, and he knew it.
"You see, Zlatan, it's clear you've been trying to make a name for yourself," Kurt continued, his voice carrying a tone of mockery. "But let me make something perfectly clear. You can add all the hot sauce you want to your meals," he smirked, referencing Zlatan's infamous burrito incident, "but it won't change the fact that you're just a sideshow act, an afterthought in my storied career."
He let the words settle in, the crowd now fully invested in the brewing tension between the two larger-than-life personalities. Kurt's confidence radiated, every word carefully chosen to belittle and provoke Zlatan.
"Ah, Green Bay," Kurt went on, his expression shifting into one of mock realization. "Where you thought you could make a name for yourself by interfering in the six-man tag team match that cost me, Eddie guerrero and Chris Benoit the win. Congratulations!" His tone turned sarcastic, his words biting. "You managed to be a minor annoyance."
Kurt's grin widened as he referenced the moment at Backlash, where Zlatan had once again inserted himself into his orbit. "But let's not forget what happened at Backlash, where you decided to open that big mouth of yours, throwing out your oh-so-clever remarks thanks to Edge."
The crowd reacted, a mixture of boos for Kurt and cheers for the chaos that Zlatan had caused.
"And then there's the matter of where you're from," Kurt said, his voice dipping into mockery again. "Yugoslavia, huh? Quite the melting pot of identities, isn't it? Bosnian, Croat—what's next? Are you gonna claim you're a Serbian Viking next week?" Kurt chuckled, shaking his head as if the idea were laughable. "It's laughable, really."
The crowd reacted once again, divided in their opinions. Some cheered, supporting Kurt's sharp words, while others booed loudly, voicing their disapproval of the personal jabs.
"And let's not forget," Kurt continued, his expression turning serious again, "the first time I called you out—a week after your WWE debut in Montreal. I called you a 'punk kid with a Bosnian accent from Sweden,' and you took offense to that?" He paused, letting the crowd murmur. "Well, guess what? It was accurate then, and it's accurate now."
The arena hummed with anticipation, Kurt's words hanging heavy in the air. His confidence was unmistakable, his disdain for Zlatan palpable. He had thrown down the gauntlet, not just for his upcoming match, but for Zlatan's entire presence in the WWE.
Kurt straightened, his chest puffed out as he prepared to drive home his final point. "So, Zlatan, enjoy your time in the spotlight while it lasts," he said, his voice colder now, more direct. "Because tonight, when I beat Rey Mysterio by making him submit to the Ankle Lock, you'll realize just how out of your league you truly are."
The intensity in Kurt's voice sent a ripple through the crowd, and as he raised the mic one last time, his words echoed throughout the arena: "The Olympic Gold Medalist always comes out on top."
With a sharp, deliberate motion, Kurt dropped the microphone. The sound reverberated through the arena, signaling the end of his message. The crowd erupted in a mixture of boos and cheers, the WWE Universe fully riled up as Kurt Angle's challenge hung in the air like an electric charge.
As the lights dimmed slightly and Kurt took his place in the ring, the arena's anticipation shifted to the arrival of his opponent for the night. The tension was palpable, as Kurt angled his body toward the ramp, his eyes locked on the entrance.
The crowd began to chant, knowing what was coming next. The unmistakable beat of Rey Mysterio's entrance music was moments away, and with it, the arrival of one of WWE's most electrifying high-flyers. But for now, Kurt stood alone in the ring, his face a mask of confidence, waiting.
The stage was set. Kurt Angle had said his piece, but the night was far from battle was about to begin.
XXXX
The Target Center in Minneapolis was alive with anticipation, the atmosphere electric as Kurt Angle and Rey Mysterio squared off in a match that promised to be a showcase of technical prowess and high-flying spectacle. The energy from the crowd was palpable, and both competitors fed off it as they launched into a fierce exchange of holds, counters, and aerial assaults.
Michael Cole's voice boomed from the commentary table, unable to contain his excitement. "Folks, this match is an absolute barn-burner! Angle and Mysterio are giving it their all tonight!"
Beside him, Tazz nodded, leaning forward as the action unfolded. "You're right, Cole. These two are leaving it all in the ring tonight. This is what SmackDown is all about—pure wrestling at its finest."
Despite the intensity of the contest, something was amiss. Kurt Angle, typically focused and precise in his movements, began to feel a strange discomfort building in his stomach. The unease had started earlier in the evening, but as the match progressed, it grew worse. He clenched his jaw, determined not to let it show, especially in front of an audience that expected nothing less than perfection from the Olympic Gold Medalist.
Michael Cole noticed a slight shift in Angle's demeanor. "Kurt Angle seems to be in top form tonight," he remarked, though a note of concern crept into his voice. "But you can't help but wonder if that churning sensation in his stomach might be bothering him."
Tazz glanced over, his brow furrowed. "Yeah, you gotta wonder, Cole. In a match like this, every little distraction can make a difference. And Rey Mysterio's not the kind of guy you can afford to take your eyes off."
Angle, ever the professional, fought through the discomfort. He executed suplex after suplex with the precision of a machine, his body moving on muscle memory even as his mind struggled with the growing pressure in his abdomen. The crowd roared as the momentum swung in Angle's favor, with each slam drawing gasps and cheers from the fans.
"Kurt Angle with a series of suplexes!" Michael Cole called out, his voice rising with excitement. "He's showing why he's an Olympic Gold Medalist. The man is a wrestling machine!"
Tazz, still cautious, couldn't help but acknowledge the potential issue. "But that stomach problem could be a wild card, Cole. Let's see if it becomes a factor."
As the match continued, Angle's technical brilliance was on full display. He transitioned seamlessly from move to move, his mastery of the mat game unmatched. But with each powerful suplex and counter, the discomfort in his stomach grew worse, becoming impossible to ignore.
The turning point came after a particularly thunderous belly-to-belly suplex that sent Rey Mysterio crashing to the mat. The move was flawless, a testament to Angle's incredible strength and skill. But immediately after the impact, Kurt's face twisted in sudden pain. His hand instinctively went to his abdomen, his expression tight as the churning sensation intensified.
Michael Cole's voice cut through the noise of the arena, his tone shifting from excitement to concern. "Wait a minute, Tazz, something's not right here. Kurt Angle looks like he's in pain."
Tazz, clearly confused, leaned in, watching closely. "You're right, Cole. He hit that suplex perfectly, but now he's—what's going on?"
Before Tazz could finish, the answer became painfully clear. Kurt Angle, one of the toughest, most disciplined athletes in WWE, was suddenly overwhelmed by a need that no amount of willpower could fight. The discomfort in his stomach had turned into a full-blown emergency. In a split-second decision, Angle turned away from the match, abandoning the ring entirely.
The crowd, sensing something was off, began murmuring in confusion as Kurt hurriedly exited through the ropes. Rey Mysterio, still reeling from the suplex, sat up in the ring, his arms raised in bewilderment.
"What's going on here?" Rey asked, his voice carrying over the murmur of the audience.
The referee, just as perplexed as everyone else, watched as Kurt Angle, the consummate professional, made a beeline for the backstage area, clutching his abdomen as he disappeared through the curtains.
Michael Cole was at a loss for words. "I've never seen anything like this, Tazz. Kurt Angle just left the ring and is heading backstage!"
Tazz, equally baffled, shook his head. "I don't get it, Cole. Is he injured? This doesn't make any sense. Why would he just leave in the middle of the match?"
The referee, snapping out of his confusion, began the mandatory ten-count. Rey Mysterio, still unsure of what was happening, stood in the ring, glancing toward the entrance, hoping for some kind of explanation.
"One… Two…"
The crowd, still unsure what to make of the situation, began counting along with the referee, some laughing, others shouting in confusion. Angle, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.
"Three… Four… Five…"
Michael Cole and Tazz continued to speculate, trying to figure out what had just happened. "Maybe he's hurt?" Cole suggested. "But he didn't seem injured, just—"
"Six… Seven…"
Tazz shook his head. "I don't know, Cole. Kurt Angle doesn't just walk out of matches. This is bizarre."
"Eight… Nine… Ten!"
The referee signaled for the bell, bringing the match to an abrupt and confusing end. The crowd let out a collective gasp, followed by a mix of boos and cheers as Tony Chimel made the announcement.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match as a result of a count-out… Rey Mysterio!"
Rey raised his arms in victory, but even he couldn't hide his confusion. He circled the ring, celebrating his count-out victory, but it was clear from his expression that this wasn't how he had expected the night to go.
Back at the commentary table, Michael Cole and Tazz were left scratching their heads, trying to make sense of the unexpected turn of events.
"I've seen a lot of strange things in WWE," Cole said, still trying to process what had just unfolded, "but I don't think I've ever seen a match end like this."
Tazz nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Cole. Whatever happened with Kurt, that was… weird. Hopefully, we'll get some answers soon."
As Rey Mysterio celebrated in the ring, the cameras cut to the entranceway, but Kurt Angle was nowhere to be found. The arena was left buzzing with speculation, as one of the most intense matches of the night ended in the most unexpected of ways. For Kurt Angle, however, the battle that had taken him from the ring was far more pressing than any match.
XXXX
The scene backstage at SmackDown was its usual chaos—WWE Superstars, road agents, and crew members crisscrossed the corridors, prepping for their segments and chatting with each other as they passed through. It was the calm behind the storm, the space where the in-ring intensity gave way to camaraderie and last-minute preparation.
But suddenly, the normal flow of activity was interrupted by the unmistakable figure of Kurt Angle, who barreled through the hallway with a look of pure urgency plastered across his face. His typically composed demeanor had crumbled, replaced by desperation. He clutched his abdomen as he dashed through the narrow corridor, weaving past startled onlookers.
Torrie Wilson was the first to notice Kurt's mad dash, raising an eyebrow as he almost clipped her in his haste. "Hey, watch where you're going!" she called out, a mix of surprise and indignation in her voice. She stepped back, watching him hurry past with wide eyes.
Ivory, standing next to Torrie, shared a puzzled look with her fellow Diva before shaking her head. "What's gotten into him?" she asked, more to herself than anyone else. It wasn't every day you saw the typically unflappable Olympic Gold Medalist sprinting through the backstage area like his life depended on it.
A little farther down the corridor, Edge stood leaning against a production crate, arms crossed and a grin spreading across his face as Kurt charged by. Always one for a quick quip, Edge couldn't help himself. "Looks like Kurt's got an urgent appointment," he remarked dryly, drawing a laugh from those nearby.
Hardcore Holly, who had seen his fair share of strange backstage antics over the years, shook his head with a bemused smirk. "Well, that's a first," he muttered, clearly entertained by the unusual sight of Kurt Angle in such a vulnerable position.
Matt Hardy, walking by with a grin, added, "I guess even Olympic Gold Medalists have their moments." His tone was light, a knowing smirk on his face as he shared in the laughter of the others.
As Kurt disappeared around a corner, still clutching his abdomen and muttering something unintelligible, the group of Superstars exchanged glances, barely able to contain their amusement. The sight of the otherwise stoic and serious Kurt Angle frantically sprinting toward the restrooms had turned into an impromptu comedy show for the SmackDown roster.
Torrie shook her head, unable to hold back a chuckle. "I don't think I've ever seen him move that fast," she said, still watching the direction Kurt had gone.
Ivory, laughing softly, nodded in agreement. "That's saying something—he's an Olympic Gold Medalist, after all."
The group lingered for a moment, shaking their heads and sharing a chuckle at the unexpected and rather human turn of events. Despite the intensity of the night's matches, Kurt's frantic dash had given everyone a much-needed moment of levity. They resumed their walk down the corridor, still grinning and exchanging knowing glances as the sounds of the arena echoed faintly in the distance.
For the SmackDown roster, this was one of those moments that would become part of the backstage lore—an Olympic hero, driven not by the thrill of competition but by the call of nature. And as they went about their business, the image of Kurt Angle's desperate sprint would remain a source of laughter for the rest of the night.
As the show went on, the Superstars couldn't help but wonder if Kurt's next run would be quite as memorable.
XXXX
The restroom, quiet except for the faint echo of Kurt Angle's discomfort, became an unlikely battleground in the ongoing feud between the Olympic Gold Medalist and Zlatan Ibrahimović. Kurt sat on the toilet, grimacing as waves of discomfort surged through him, his body still feeling the effects of the tainted burritos from earlier in the night. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his jaw clenched as he tried to regain his composure.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. Kurt, lost in his misery, didn't notice at first. But then, a familiar voice broke the silence, its tone dripping with mischief.
"Hey there, Kurt. Everything coming out all right?"
Kurt's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, was Zlatan Ibrahimović. His trademark grin was firmly in place, and in his hands were two toilet paper rolls, which he twirled casually like trophies. Zlatan's eyes sparkled with amusement as he took in the sight of Kurt's predicament.
Kurt groaned, already on edge and desperate for some privacy. "Zlatan, just leave me alone," he grumbled, his voice strained with irritation.
But Zlatan was far from finished. He stepped into the restroom, his grin widening as he mocked Kurt, savoring every moment of the Olympic hero's discomfort.
"Oh, by the way," Zlatan began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "if you're looking for the toilet paper, don't bother. I've got the only two rolls right here."
Kurt's brow furrowed, confusion briefly overriding his discomfort. "What are you talking about, Ibrahimović?" he asked, though he was in no mood for riddles.
Zlatan, still twirling the toilet rolls with a smirk, leaned closer and lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. "I appreciate you keeping those burritos warm for me, Kurt."
Suddenly, the truth hit Kurt like a freight train. His stomachache, his desperate dash to the restroom—it all made sense now. Zlatan had been behind it. The burritos. He was the mastermind behind Kurt's torment. Anger flashed in Kurt's eyes, and he made a move to get up from the toilet, determined to confront Zlatan for what he had done.
But his body had other plans.
Just as Kurt began to rise, another wave of intense discomfort crashed over him. He doubled over slightly, clutching his abdomen as his face contorted into a pained expression. A low, involuntary moan escaped his lips as he slumped back down onto the toilet, helpless to do anything but endure the prank's consequences.
Zlatan, thoroughly amused by the scene, chuckled to himself. "Looks like you're stuck there for a while, Kurt," he said, his voice filled with playful malice. "I'll leave you to it. Maybe next time, you'll think twice before messing with the Lion of Rosengård."
With a final smirk, Zlatan turned and exited the restroom, leaving Kurt trapped and frustrated. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Kurt was left alone to deal with both his physical discomfort and the bitter realization that he had been outsmarted.
Meanwhile, back at ringside, Michael Cole and Tazz, having witnessed Kurt's sudden exit earlier in the match, continued to process what had transpired.
"Well, Tazz," Michael Cole said, shaking his head in disbelief, "it seems like the Lion of Rosengård has pulled off another one of his mind games, and this time, it resulted in a count-out loss for Kurt Angle."
Tazz nodded, still chuckling at the absurdity of the situation. "That's right, Cole. Zlatan Ibrahimović managed to get inside Kurt Angle's head once again with that burrito incident earlier. Kurt's discomfort and hurried exit from the match gave Rey Mysterio the victory. But, man, I didn't expect it to go down like this."
Cole's voice took on a more analytical tone. "It just goes to show you, Tazz, that Zlatan's not just a phenomenal athlete—he's a master of mind games as well. Kurt Angle may have the technical edge in the ring, but Zlatan knows how to mess with his head. And now, Kurt is going to have to come up with a new strategy if he wants to get the upper hand in this rivalry."
Tazz leaned back, his arms crossed, a grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, Cole, Zlatan's playing chess while Kurt's stuck playing checkers right now. This feud is getting more entertaining by the minute."
As the SmackDown commentators exchanged their final thoughts on the bizarre yet amusing development, the WWE Universe buzzed with anticipation. Kurt Angle and Zlatan Ibrahimović's rivalry was no longer just about who was the better athlete—it had evolved into a battle of wits, pranks, and egos. And while Kurt Angle sat in the restroom, stewing in frustration, the fans eagerly awaited what would happen next.
The chapter closed with the SmackDown roster and fans alike knowing that the feud between Kurt Angle and Zlatan was far from over. If anything, this was just the beginning of a saga that would continue to push both men to their limits—in and out of the ring.
XXXX
As the sun began to set over the skyline of Minneapolis, Brock Lesnar and Zlatan Ibrahimović strolled through the bustling streets, soaking in the energy of the city. It was a rare moment of calm for two men who were more accustomed to the intensity of the ring, but today, they were far from the squared circle. The two titans, each a legend in his own right, found solace in the simple act of walking side by side, away from the spotlight and the roar of the WWE Universe.
Their first stop was a place deeply intertwined with Brock's past—the arena where he had made a name for himself long before the world knew him as "The Beast Incarnate." As they approached the familiar building, a flicker of nostalgia crossed Brock's usually stoic face. It had been years since he last set foot here, but the memories were still fresh.
"This is where it all started for me," Brock said, his voice quieter than usual as they entered the arena. "Feels good to be back."
Zlatan nodded, his eyes scanning the space with interest. "It's always special to revisit your roots, Brock."
Inside the arena, Brock was immediately met with warm greetings. Old friends, trainers, and relatives who had watched him grow into the unstoppable force he was today gathered around, their faces lighting up at the sight of him. For Zlatan, it was a glimpse into Brock's world—one that was far removed from the larger-than-life persona he projected on TV. Here, he wasn't just the dominant WWE Champion; he was Brock, the kid from Minnesota.
One of Brock's relatives, a graying man with kind eyes, approached with a smile. "I remember when Brock used to train right here in this very spot," he said, gesturing to a corner of the arena where an old gym setup was still visible. "He was determined even back then."
Brock chuckled, the sound low and deep. "Yeah, I guess not much has changed in that regard."
As they walked further into the arena, the walls seemed to echo with stories from Brock's past. Every turn brought more memories, more familiar faces from his childhood. They stopped by a small wrestling room where Brock had once honed his craft, a modest place where his relentless drive had been forged.
"Brock used to be all about wrestling, even when we were just kids," one of his childhood friends chimed in, laughing as he recalled their younger days. "He'd be lifting weights and practicing moves while the rest of us were goofing around."
Zlatan, impressed by the stories, crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like Brock was dedicated from a young age."
"He was," the friend replied, still smiling. "We all knew he was destined for something bigger."
Brock remained quiet, but there was a softness in his expression as he listened to the stories of his youth. It was clear that these memories, these people, had played a significant role in shaping who he was. Zlatan, though typically the center of attention, took a backseat in this moment, allowing Brock's history to take center stage. For Zlatan, it was a rare opportunity to see behind the beastly exterior—to understand the human being who had clawed his way to the top.
As the conversation flowed, laughter filled the air. Brock's friends shared tales of his grit, his unwavering focus, and the challenges he had overcome. Each story added a new layer to the already formidable image of Brock Lesnar. Zlatan listened intently, understanding more and more about what had driven his friend to become the global icon he was today.
"These stories bring back some good memories," Brock said, grinning as he leaned against a wall.
Zlatan smiled, a rare display of warmth crossing his face. "It's great to see where you came from and the people who've been part of your journey. It makes everything you've achieved even more impressive."
As their visit to the arena drew to a close, Brock and Zlatan expressed their gratitude to Brock's relatives and old friends. The atmosphere was filled with a quiet sense of pride, and the shared memories had deepened the bond between the two Superstars.
Before they left, one of Brock's relatives clapped him on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, Brock. Don't be a stranger."
Brock nodded, his expression softening for a moment. "I won't. Thanks for the welcome."
With a final wave, Brock and Zlatan stepped out of the arena and back into the night. The city's cool air greeted them, and they resumed their stroll, walking side by side with a new understanding between them. For Zlatan, the trip had been more than just a casual stop—it had given him insight into what drove Brock, a glimpse into the determination and hard work that had brought him to the top. And for Brock, it was a reminder of where he had come from, of the people who had supported him along the way.
"Thanks for coming along, Zlatan," Brock said as they walked. "This was a special visit."
Zlatan smiled, nodding. "It was my pleasure, Brock. Getting to know your history makes me appreciate the journey you've been on. We're not so different after all."
With that, they walked through the quiet streets of Minneapolis, their bond strengthened by shared stories and a deeper understanding of each other's paths. Both men had faced their own struggles, their own battles, but together, they were ready for whatever lay ahead.
The journey wasn't over—it had only just begun.
The strength, determination, and camaraderie they shared would carry them forward, both in and out of the ring.