When the money started flowing, so did the sharks.
It began subtly. A new voice on the line during meetings. Extra clauses in contracts. Handshakes that lasted too long. Blaze had thought the underground was ruthless—but the boardroom was colder. Sharper. Suited predators smiled wider, but bit deeper.
Zion called it the Shark Circle. A league of backroom operators, brand brokers, and image-builders. They'd never laced gloves. Never bled for a dollar. But they built empires off those who did.
"Don't mistake the smile for safety," Zion warned, tapping a contract with a silver pen. "These people deal in narrative. They'll make you rich—but only as long as you perform. And the moment you don't, they'll gut your name and feed it to the next hungry dog."
Blaze nodded, silent. The ink was still wet on his first real sponsorship—an urban fashion label looking to pivot into athletic wear. $180,000 upfront. Photo rights. Event appearances. But the fine print nearly made his eyes bleed.
He wasn't just Blaze anymore. He was a brand.
---
With the contract came the first real taste of wealth. New gym equipment. A better apartment. A midnight-black SUV with his initials stitched into the seats.
But it also came with surveillance. Phone calls from "brand liaisons" asking why he hadn't posted training footage in three days. A wardrobe consultant who wanted to dye his hair for "image cohesion." Invitations to rooftop mixers he had no interest in attending.
Zion kept his distance but watched everything.
"You get too comfortable in their world," he said, "and they'll file your teeth down 'til you smile just like them."
---
The money brought attention. The attention brought parasites.
Old faces reemerged with glossy memories and vague stories. A cousin he'd never met DM'd him asking for $10,000 "to make moves." A former gym mate cornered him outside The Forge, hinting at old debts owed.
Blaze remained polite, but his fuse was shortening. He hadn't fought tooth and nail just to become someone else's ATM.
One night, Zion sat him down in the locker room, alone.
"You feel it, don't you?" he asked.
Blaze nodded. "The shift. Like I'm drifting from the fight into something else. Something soft."
Zion leaned forward.
"You're not drifting. You're evolving. But evolution doesn't mean surrender. You lead with your fists, but you win with your mind now. That's what they don't see coming."
---
To anchor himself, Blaze started training alone before sunrise.
Barefoot runs across the East District.
Punch drills in the cold.
No cameras.
No press.
Just rhythm. Breath. Pain.
He remembered the basement. The hunger. The boy who clawed his way from nothing.
That boy was still inside him—hungry, angry, alive.
---
One sponsorship offer came from a luxury vodka brand. The money was absurd. The marketing plan even more so—Blaze posing shirtless beside bottles he'd never drink.
He turned it down.
The agent scoffed. "You could be huge. Cross-industry. Not just a fighter—a lifestyle."
Blaze stood, calm.
"I don't sell poison. I survive it."
---
But there were plays worth making. With Zion's guidance, Blaze invested in a local boxing academy—refurbishing it into a haven for at-risk youth. Cameras showed up, hungry for a redemption narrative. Blaze let them film—on one condition.
"Tell the kids' stories. Not just mine."
That week, the gym got flooded with applications. News outlets ran the headline: FROM FISTS TO FUTURES.
His brand didn't soften. It sharpened. Purpose became power.
---
Then came the Shark Mixer.
An exclusive gathering of elite athletes, agents, and brand architects. Blaze got an invite. Zion told him to go—see the game up close.
The event was held in a glass tower downtown. Suits. Hand-rolled cigars. Highball glasses and buzzwords. Blaze moved through it like a ghost.
He met a brand strategist named Lena Kross—sharp, poised, smile like a scalpel.
"You're the man who turned fists into fire," she said. "We've been watching."
"And?" Blaze asked.
"You're marketable. But still raw. That edge can sell, or it can cut you."
Blaze sipped water. "I'd rather bleed than bend."
Lena smiled wider. "Then you're exactly what they fear. And what they pay top dollar to control."
---
By the end of the night, Blaze had six new offers. Three real, three traps. Zion sorted them like a war general.
"You pick one," he said, "and build your legacy. But every dollar has a string. Make sure you're the one pulling it."
---
The following week, Blaze accepted a sponsorship with Titan Tech—a wearable tech company building gloves that tracked speed, impact, and technique. It was more than a deal.
It was a message.
He wasn't selling out.
He was building up.
The world saw fists.
He saw a future.
And in the Shark Circle, that made him dangerous.