Victor could barely hear a thing.
Every ounce of focus was locked on the guy across from him.
The Slav was bouncing in place, but sluggish—like the tapes didn't match the man. Not nearly as springy.
Victor's gut twisted again at Michael's warning.
This wasn't a fight. It was a setup—an Irish hustle using a fat kid as the punchline.
Ding—!
Bell rang. Victor Lee and the Slav threw punches at the same time, carving deadly arcs through the smoky air of the Green Forest Bar.
But Victor's jab landed first—crack—right on the bridge of the nose. Satisfying as hell.
The Slav's right hook grazed Victor's ear, though. Wind pressure made his eardrum throb.
They broke apart, circling the ropes.
The Slav's footwork was slower than expected, but the power? Still there. All of it.
Victor seized the opening—three hooks, one after another, into the guy's ribs. Each one felt like punching a leather-wrapped brick wall.
The Slav grunted, fired back an uppercut. Victor leaned back just in time—neck still got clipped, skin-on-skin snap.
"He's slowed," Victor thought. "But power's intact. Technique too!"
He switched gears—used his raw strength and deeper gas tank. Charged in with combos, then peeled out fast.
Second minute: Victor's left hook crushed the Slav's temple.
The big man wobbled—went down hard, eyes glassy. Ref started the count, but the Slav shook it off fast, flashed a nasty grin:
"That all you got?"
Heavy accent. Pure trash talk.
Victor didn't bite. Stuck to the plan.
He clocked it—the Slav's breathing was getting ragged. Sweat pouring off his forehead. Not normal for a clean fight.
Yesterday's drugs were kicking in.
Third minute: the Slav flipped the script. Stopped chasing. Planted himself dead center of the ring like a statue, waiting.
Victor rushed in again—and the Slav dropped his right hand. Wide open.
Victor's instinct fired—a straight right at the gap.
But mid-punch, he caught the glint in the Slav's eye. Trap.
Too late to pull back.
The Slav slipped sideways with freak speed—then blasted a left hook into Victor's liver like a damn cannon.
Even inches of fat couldn't soak that one. The punch landed. Victor felt his guts shift.
Pain shot through him like lightning. Vision blurred. Legs buckled.
BAM!
Victor dropped to one knee, left hand on the canvas, right guarding his head.
Ref waved the Slav off.
Crowd noise faded—like hearing through a pillow.
Michael screamed from ringside: "Get up! Get the hell up!"
Ref counted: "…three… four…"
Vision cleared. Victor saw the Slav across the ring—heaving, but smirking like victory was locked.
Weird thing: the Slav's coach wasn't hyped. Frowning hard. Kept glancing at the bar entrance—like waiting for something. Or scared of it.
"…six… seven…"
Victor bit down on the mouthguard, forced himself up.
Pain still ripping through his side.
"…eight…"
At eight, he grabbed the ropes and hauled himself upright.
Crowd booed—some clapped.
The Slav looked surprised. Then that predator grin came back.
"Tough little yellow pig," he muttered—low, just for Victor.
Bell saved him. End of round one.
He staggered to his corner. Michael shoved a stool under him, slapped an ice pack on the hit ribs.
"Shit! Thought you were done!"
Michael sprayed water in Victor's face. "That bastard should be twitching on the floor!"
Victor spat out the mouthguard, sucked air. "What… the hell… did you give him?"
"Bull aphrodisiac! Vet-grade! Enough to drop a horse."
Michael frowned. "He should be seizing by now."
He leaned in. "Listen—you came out too hot. You're burning gas. Round two, end it. White's got heavy money down. No screw-ups."
Victor glanced across. The Slav dumping water on his head—droplets running down inked-up pecs.
His coach whispering fast. The Slav shoved him off, snapped something in Russian. Pissed.
"Something's off…" Victor mumbled.
"Forget off," Michael growled, jamming the mouthguard back in. "Next round—chin. Drug's gotta hit soon."
Bell rang. Victor stood. Liver still shaking.
The Slav was already center ring—eyes wild with something Victor couldn't read. Rage? Pain? …Fear?
The near-seven-foot Eastern Bloc beast was breathing like a freight train. Blonde buzzcut plastered with sweat.
Victor caught it—every breath, the guy's mouth twitched. Like his bones were screaming.
"Round Two! Fight!"
Ref's voice cut the noise.
They closed in. Victor struck first.
Faked low—shoulder dropped, left hook wind-up.
Slav's guard dipped—chin exposed for a split second.
Victor's loaded right snapped out—uppercut straight for the jaw.
But the Slav read it.
Head snapped back impossible fast. Victor's glove scraped stubble.
At the same time—the Slav's right blasted toward Victor's temple, wind screaming.
World flashed white.
Black spots bloomed at the edges. Ears rang like sirens.
Split-second instinct saved him—boxing ain't math. He ducked like he'd done a thousand times getting jumped in school.
The punch grazed his scalp—glove scraping hair with a hiss.
Close call. But body moved faster than brain.
Left fist exploded—full 485 pounds behind it—right into the Slav's ribs.
Crowd heard the thud—meat on meat.
"Ugh!"
The Slav made a sound like a dying animal. Guard dropped.
Victor stepped in—hooks left and right.
First grazed cheekbone. Second dodged. Third nailed the chin—jaw couldn't take the force. Muscle did nothing to bleed it off.
The impact spun the Slav 180—then he crashed like a felled oak, boom on the canvas.
The underground fight pit erupted.
Victor staggered back to the ropes, lungs on fire.
He looked down—gloves slick with blood. His? The Slav's? Didn't matter.
Ref crouched, counted—but waved it off fast.
"KO! Winner—Victor!"
Cheers and curses exploded.
Bettors who backed the Slav turned purple. One bald dude smashed a beer bottle against the wall—glass everywhere.
"Damn Russian! My five grand!"
"They lie like their elections!"
"Cheating! That fat bastard used something!"
A chill crawled up Victor's spine.
He knew how this worked. Last year in Chicago, a fighter called "Iron Hammer" pulled an upset—found floating in the East River the next day.
Jason and Michael bolted up like lightning, one on each side, hauling Victor off the ring.
"Move," Michael hissed in his ear. "White's guys can't hold the crowd."
But White didn't care: "Get our money. Let the little fish squirm. We loaned out 150K—one week, they pay up!"
"Every harvest like this, we gotta replant! Bankers got it easy—rob with stocks!"
"This big guy did good. Take Sully's advice. No need to side with the Italians. Irish stay soft."
"Drop anyone causing trouble!"
They dragged Victor through the chaos.
One red-faced guy blocked the path. Victor didn't hesitate—cracked him in the gut. Dude folded.
Behind them: more glass shattering. Women screaming.
Locker room door slammed. Jason jammed a mop under the handle.
Michael yanked off Victor's gloves, checked the damage.
"Ribs? That Russian got you good."
Victor winced, peeled off his shirt—thick fat over bruised muscle. "I'm good. Fat's a built-in vest. Breathing don't hurt."
He forced a grin. "Just hurts like a mother."
Michael pressed between the ribs. Victor hissed. "No cracks. But muscle's torn."
Jason frowned. "Saturday's fight—"
"Tell White I got a cracked rib," Victor cut in, eyes sharp. "Doctor confirmed. Needs a week off."
Michael and Jason swapped looks.
Outside—pounding on the door. Getting louder.
"That'll fly. You won't get another full-house harvest after this."
Michael whispered, paging the message. "But White hates no-shows. Last guy—'Quickblade' Tommy—tried quitting. Still in the hospital."
Victor wiped blood from his face with a towel. Mirror: left eye swollen shut.
"Then tell him—forcing me up there just burns his investment. A fighter with busted ribs won't last three minutes."