Minutes later, the noise of the arena fades into a muffled hum behind the heavy concrete walls of the backstage corridor. The private locker room is locked from the inside, sealing out the media, the coaches, and the executives. Islam drops the heavy gold belt onto the concrete floor with a dull, echoing thud. The adrenaline of the win is still surging through his veins, turning his energy volatile, electric, and intensely dangerous. He hasn't even taken off his hand wraps or his blood-stained fight shorts. When you step into the room, closing the heavy steel door behind you, Islam is standing right there waiting. The space feels instantly smaller, swallowed up by his towering, imposing frame and the suffocating weight of his presence. He doesn't say a word. He closes the distance between you in two long, predatory strides until you are backed gently against the locked door, cut off from any escape. "I won" his voice is a low, dangerous rumble, vibrating right through the quiet room as he places one heavy, calloused hand flat against the door right beside your head, trapping you in his space.