Round Fifteen.
The final round.
The air was so thick you could squeeze water out of it.
The two fighters didn't even bother with jabs or footwork; they just charged straight at each other in the center of the ring.
The fight didn't just get brutal; it went full-on legendary.
Tyson landed a vicious right hook that dropped Victor flat!
Victor got up at the count of eight.
Less than twenty seconds later, Victor fired back with a revenge-fueled left hook that sent Tyson crashing down!
Tyson rose at eight too.
You couldn't even tell what their faces used to look like; just torn skin and purple bruises.
But they kept swinging, dragging their broken bodies forward, burning the last of their souls.
Victor went down again!
Then got back up!
Tyson staggered to one knee after a wild exchange, gritted his teeth, and stood!
The final bell rang like a mercy kill, ending the mutual destruction.
Neither man could stand on his own. They both lurched forward at the same time, caught by their corners.
Their arms hung heavy over each other's shoulders, heads pressed together, sweat and blood mixing and dripping onto the canvas they'd just bled all over.
No words. Just ragged, broken breathing; the kind only they could understand. Fifteen rounds of hell, shared.
When the ref finally pried them apart, the three judges' scores came in through the announcer's hoarse voice, and the arena exploded; cheers and boos crashing like waves.
Victor had more knockdowns, but he got smoked in total points and effective punch stats.
Tyson won by unanimous decision; no debate.
The second the result dropped, both coaching teams lost their minds.
Victor's coaches, Frankie and old Jack, charged the ref's table like lit fuses, screaming in his face:
"Was your count in slow-mo?! That knockdown was way past ten! You gave Tyson a damn twenty-second vacation!"
"And that last stoppage; why'd you jump in so fast?! You stole Victor's finish!"
Tyson's side wasn't any calmer. They were livid about Victor's constant clinching, headlocks, and sneaky shots to the back of the head, claiming the ref let it slide too long:
"Look at his face! Look what Tyson went through! Y'all blind to those dirty tricks?! This win should've been clean!"
The two old firecrackers had the refs surrounded, red-faced and roaring, until security rushed in to keep it from turning into a brawl.
But in the eye of the storm, the two fighters? Totally different vibe.
Victor, face wrecked, shuffled over and wrapped his heavy arm around a swaying Tyson.
"Hey, Mike… good fight… one hell of a war."
His voice was shredded, words slurred.
Tyson winced, sucking air through his teeth: "You're a tough son of a bitch, Victor… never… been this beat."
Only they knew the stabbing pain in every breath, the insane willpower it took to throw one more punch.
Victor, using the last of his strength, added: "Wait… till I heal… rematch… it's in the contract…"
Tyson let out a short, pained laugh mixed with excitement: "Anytime!"
Down in the crowd, Trump's smile had been gone for a while.
Fifteen rounds cost him a fortune. He even thought about stiffing Victor.
But Victor's crew shocked him.
Before the official medical team could even get up the steps, more than twenty sharp-dressed, stone-faced guys; clearly packing heat; moved in fast and tight around Victor.
They communicated in clipped phrases, pulled a stretcher out of nowhere, and with eight guys working together, carefully loaded the nearly 400-pound fighter onto it.
Fast. Clean. Professional. Totally out of place amid the chaos of celebration and protests.
Trump recognized them; Chicago Chinatown mob. They only trusted their own.
He quickly waved his own medics over to Tyson. Still wanted his cash cow breathing.
Press conference? Canceled. The coaches were still cussing out the refs.
But the next day's medical reports blew everyone away.
Victor: shattered old jaw injury, torn jaw muscles, perforated eardrums, two broken ribs, cracked sternum, moderate concussion…
Tyson: perforated eardrums, cracked jaw, one broken rib, severe soft tissue damage everywhere.
Both went straight to the ICU. Major surgeries and long recoveries ahead.
The media went nuts.
Every sports section, even mainstream news, led with the "Fight of the Century."
"Bloodbath to the 15th!"
"Clash of Iron Wills!"
"The Ultimate in Boxing Spirit: Victor and Tyson, Defeated but Glorious!"
Headlines everywhere.
Commentators called them modern warriors, icons of the fight game.
Their reputations hit all-time highs. Legends.
But like the story says, "The only one who got hurt was Trump."
As the hype peaked, another problem surfaced:
Gambling payouts.
The fight was so controversial; Victor with more knockdowns but losing on points; that it drew insane global betting volume. Most bet on Tyson, but plenty went big on Victor pulling the upset.
Tyson's "controversial" win meant payouts to his backers, which should've been covered by the house take and odds structure.
But the controversy sparked mass complaints.
Big-money VIPs who bet on Victor demanded refunds, claiming the result was rigged, pushing for "no contest" or voided bets.
Worse, the epic brutality pulled in way more casual bettors than expected, spreading money across high-odds prop bets (which round, exact scores, etc.).
And Trump; for whatever reason; only set odds through ten rounds.
Fifteen rounds? The house ate every payout.
Trump's betting operation got buried under claims.
After emergency accounting, he realized the broadcast rights, tickets, and sponsorship cash wouldn't cover the payouts; especially the long-shot bets.
He was supposed to cash in big. Instead? Massive loss.
Staring at stacks of payout demands and ringing phones, Trump looked worse than either fighter.
Cursing the refs (no matter who they favored, it screwed him), he counted every lost dollar.
The fight that shook the world became his personal Waterloo.
···
Meanwhile, in a smoky conference room at SHW Inc., the heads of Chicago's major martial arts schools; Taiji, Hung Gar, Choy Li Fut, Wing Chun; filed in.
These guys wore multiple hats: community leaders, chamber of commerce presidents. Back in the day, they had men and guns, so they called the shots.
They greeted each other, easy and relaxed.
Since August, the monthly SHW shareholder meetings had become routine; and always came with fat dividend checks. The gym bosses loved Victor's company.
The original 23 investors were treating the cash like found money. They'd already recouped a third of their investment. Full payback by the end of '85.
They figured this October meeting would be quick: hear the numbers, grab the check, bounce.
But Old Joe sat at the head of the table, calm and serious. His eldest son, Frankie Lee, stood behind him like a tower in the shadows.
Jimmy McGill sat on the other side, a stack of files in front of him, wearing that lawyer smile; unreadable.
Meeting started. Financial recap; done in minutes.
Just as the gym leaders started to stand, Old Joe cleared his throat. His voice wasn't loud, but it killed every side conversation:
"Today's not just about dividends. We've got something bigger to discuss."
He scanned the room, eyes sharp:
"We're proposing to remove Srei (Third Uncle)."
The words hit like a brick in still water. Silence.
No gasps, no table-flipping. The leaders exchanged looks; a few even smirked. They'd seen Victor's playbook. Classic move: get everyone on the same boat.
But Srei? He'd run Chinatown's underworld for years. Ruthless, sure. Not perfect. But he kept the surface calm and had the martial arts crews' backing for decades.
Replace him?
That was wild.
Master Chen of the Taiji school; also Chinatown Chamber president; spoke first, fingers on his teacup, tone careful:
"If we're taking out one of our own, a few grand a month ain't gonna cut it."
Master Zhao stepped in to smooth things:
"Old Joe, Mr. McGill; this is coming out of left field. Third Uncle's got his flaws, but Chinatown's been stable. We need a reason. A damn good one."