After shaking off the mental weight of Fiona, Victor Lee feels like he ditched a twenty-pound sandbag.
The 5 a.m. alarm doesn't drag him out of bed anymore—it's the bell for round one, and he's pumped.
His fists smack the heavy bag cleaner, sweat soaks his tank faster than ever.
Thursday afternoon sun slices through the gym's high windows, stretching Victor's shadow across the floor.
He just wrapped three hours of sparring, T-shirt wrung-out wet.
Coach Old Jack tosses him a towel. "Kid, you're fighting like a starving lion today."
Victor wipes his face, about to answer, when the gym door swings open.
Two familiar faces walk in—Uncle Joe's boys, number two Jason and number three Michael.
They're hauling stuffed gym bags; Jason's got a cooler too.
"Big bro,"
Jason grins, flashing perfect teeth. "We brought you some goodies."
Michael pops the cooler without a word—neat rows of sports drinks, labels Victor's never seen. "Electrolyte mix is my own recipe," Michael finally says, voice low. "30% better than the store-bought crap."
Victor raises an eyebrow, twists one open, takes a sip.
Sweet-sour with a salty kick—surprisingly decent.
"Not bad,"
he nods. "How the hell do you two know all this?"
Jason flexes his scrawny arms—guy's barely 143 pounds soaking wet at five-ten. "I wanted to box. Couldn't hack it—took one fight, ended up in the hospital two months with busted guts. Killed my champ dreams. So I taught myself nutrition and fight theory."
Michael's simpler: "Frank—our big bro—fought Jason growing up. Frank's fists were too soft for the ring, so he joined the crew. Jason lost every scrap, I patched him up. Learned recovery on the fly."
Victor thinks it over. "Got it. You two are straight-up geniuses."
Jason pulls pro sweat towels and a top-tier tourniquet kit from his bag. "Dad says you need a crew. We work cheap—10% cut, pre-tax."
He winks. "Split between us."
Old Jack whistles. "That wouldn't cover wraps."
"We ain't in it for cash. Plus, this gear's hot—zero cost."
Michael's already checking Victor's old scrapes. "Heard you're fighting Green Forest tonight? Dude's no joke."
Warmth hits Victor, but pro caution kicks in. "You know the spot?"
"Frank tracked him down."
Jason yanks a folder from his pack, flips it open smooth. "Slavic guy, 6'5", 79-inch reach, 235 pounds. Rear-hand KO rate 87%, but he paces himself first three rounds."
He adjusts his glasses. "I broke down every YouTube fight. Fatal flaw—"
"Left ribs,"
Victor and Jason say together, then crack up.
Old Jack's jaw drops. "Lord, you two are twins from different moms."
Michael's already wrapping Victor's wrists—pro-level tight. "Took EMT at community college. Not just for a certificate."
He catches Victor's stare. "Frank found the Slav yesterday. Paid one-sixty for two girls to keep him up past round three."
Hahaha!
6:30 p.m., Victor's in the back of Jason's beat-up Toyota, cruising through Chicago's glowing neon.
Michael's up front tweaking a portable heart-rate monitor, blue screen lighting his focused face.
"Odds dropped,"
Jason says, eyes on his pager. "Slav's 1:1.05, you're 1:1.2."
Victor whistles. "Guess nobody's betting on me."
"They don't know you,"
Michael mutters, not looking up. "Or what we can do."
Green Forest Bar's neon sign pops in the dark—a glowing boxing glove blinking like a heartbeat.
Two linebacker bouncers in black suits guard the door, muscles ready to rip the fabric.
Victor flashes Mr. White's gold card. They part like the Red Sea.
A slick-haired guy in a vest greets him. "Mr. Lee? Mr. White's got you set. This way."
Down a dim hallway, walls plastered with faded fighter photos.
End of the hall: metal door marked 3.
Slick-hair pushes it open. "Your locker room. Fight starts in twenty-five."
Door shuts. Michael's on it—pulls out salves, tools.
Jason fires up the TV, pops in a DVD. "Check this—Slav's fight last week. Third round, 1:22, watch his feet."
Victor leans in, eyes narrow.
On screen, the tall Slav fakes, spins left—right foot drags a hair.
"See? Balance wobbles on the turn."
"We can use that,"
Jason says, fingers dancing. "Second round, bait him into it…"
Victor stands, counts ten Benjamins from his wallet, hands them to Jason. "Bet on me to win."
Jason freezes. "A grand? You sure?"
"Few things I'm surer of. That's in the 10%."
Victor starts stretching. "Put it on third-round KO."
Michael and Jason trade a look. Jason pockets the cash, bolts.
Victor bangs out his third set of push-ups when the door flies open.
Mr. White fills the frame, charcoal suit like a wall. Two stone-faced goons behind him.
"Victor,"
White's voice scrapes like gravel. "Pot's at six-fifty large tonight. Win, 2% is yours—thirteen grand."
He steps closer, shoes clicking. "Lose…"
Thumbs across his throat. "You know Irish rules. My partners need a body."
Victor's throat tightens, but he locks eyes. "I won't lose."
White's smile doesn't reach his eyes. Slaps Victor's cheek—firm. "I like cocky kids."
Before leaving, he eyes Jason and Michael. "Cute tricks. Eight sharp—don't be late."
Door slams. Victor's fists clench white.
Michael hands him water. "Don't sweat him. Focus."
Jason's back quick, cheeks flushed. "Done. Also heard the Slav was at a strip club till 3 a.m."
Victor grins. "Somebody's paying tonight."
7:55 p.m.—knock.
Slick-hair pokes in. "Showtime, Mr. Lee."
Light at the hall's end grows brighter, crowd roar crashing like waves.
Victor picks out betting shouts, clinking glasses.
"Remember—"
Jason whispers fast, "Hit the ribs!"
Michael double-checks Victor's mouthguard and gloves, rough fingers flying over leather, every strap locked.
Voice low, drowned by bar noise: "He's wobbly. Bro went hard on the dose!"
Victor's throat's dry, adjusts the guard—metallic taste spreads.
"What else you do?"
he mumbles.
Michael flashes a gold tooth. "Irish watch the water here. Yesterday's? Extra kick. He's still woozy."
Slaps Victor's shoulder. "Don't overthink. Go all out!"
Victor sucks in humid air—cheap whiskey, sweat, stale cigars.
Steps into blinding light, each footfall like cotton.
First black-market fight. Nerves buzzing.
Green Forest's main room's a pop-up ring, packed with hyped drunks.
Fancy ceiling lights swapped for harsh shop bulbs—ring glaring white, crowd in sickly yellow haze.
Air thick with booze, sweat, cigar smoke—almost visible.
Half-dressed waitresses weave through, trays of hard liquor catching warped light.
"Bets closed!"
Bald bookie yells, shoving through with a fat stack of tickets. "Slav 1-to-1.2, 1-to-5!"
Victor grits his guard at the slur. 361 pounds, Asian face—crowd's punchline.
Slav's already in his corner, a damn mountain.
6'4" easy, torso inked black and blue, muscles like hacked granite.
His coach—bald, meat-faced—whispers. Slav nods, eyes locked on Victor like a Siberian tiger sizing prey.
No big deal. Just punch through. Guy's lighter, stacked with debuffs.
Victor climbs the canvas—spotlights burn, ropes sway underfoot, smelling of old blood and sweat.
Jeers roll in:
"Fatass? Chinks box now?"
"White's desperate—picked a yellow pig!"
"Bet he folds first round!"
Temples throb, but Victor breathes deep.
Old Victor? Whatever. These slurs are Tuesday.
But Victor Lee? Rage stacks fast.
He eyes the Slav—spots tells:
Fresh scar over left brow, oozing tiny blood beads.
Right shoulder twitching—nerve glitch.
Breathing fast, chest heaving.
Drugged for sure,
Victor thinks. Mixed feelings swirl—not the win he wanted, but win first.
Shakes it off.
Ref—middle-aged guy in a wrinkled shirt—steps center, quick rules:
"Three-minute rounds. Ten-count knockout. Got it?"
Nods all around. He adds, "No corpses, or we all go downtown."