"Fight!"
The ref's hand dropped, and Reggie came at him like a cheetah that'd been coiled too long.
The dude moved so fast he left afterimages. Victor didn't even see the punch—just felt his left cheek explode with pain.
That jab was surgical. Victor's face twisted like putty, and the iron tang of blood flooded his mouthguard.
"Shit!"
He stumbled back, throwing up his red gloves to cover his head.
The gym's roar—screams, whistles—faded into the distance. All he heard was his own ragged breathing and blood pounding in his ears.
The next thirty seconds? Pure nightmare.
Time stretched like taffy. Every second burned into his retinas.
The ring lights smeared into halos through sweat. The crowd's noise turned to a dull buzz.
Reggie's fists screamed through the air like rusted saws on bone.
That green mohawk punk was working some violent math.
Left uppercut snaked in low, grazing Victor's chin and flicking blood like sweat.
Then a straight right blasted through his crossed arms like a cannonball.
Victor heard the sponge in his gloves groan. Plastic and rust mixed in his mouth.
A hook slammed into his ribs like a battering ram—he swore he heard a crack under the fat.
Victor curled up like a scared turtle behind a crumbling guard. Sweat and blood turned his gloves slick.
Every block sent fire through his forearms, vibrations rattling his teeth like ice picks in his marrow.
The ref flickered at the edge of his vision, like watching through a rain-streaked windshield.
But he could take it. It hurt like hell, but it wasn't gonna kill him.
"Move, damn it! Don't just be a heavy bag!"
Old Jack's gravelly bark cut through.
The twenty-buck coach slapped the ring apron with calloused hands, face twisted in rage:
"Side-step, kid! Side-step! My grandma moves faster than you!"
Victor tried shuffling, but those clunky boxing shoes felt glued to the canvas.
Sweat poured into his eyes, stinging. He squinted.
That's when a whistling right hook slipped through his loose guard and cracked into his jaw.
BAM!
Victor felt all three chins ripple like Jell-O. Worse—the force punched through fat straight to bone.
His teeth clamped the mouthguard. Stars exploded—black and white.
Knees turned to jelly, but something stubborn, meaner than pain, locked his jaw and forced him to stay upright. His punches ain't heavy enough!
"Defense… focus on defense…"
Victor muttered Jack's mantra under his breath, peering through swollen lids at Reggie.
Silver shorts gleaming. Pecs oiled up under the lights. Smirking like a cat with a mouse.
Reggie even had time to wink at some screaming chick in the crowd before resuming his beatdown.
The bell for the end of round one rang like angels singing.
Victor staggered to his corner, collapsed on the stool. Every bone screamed.
Sweat poured like a busted faucet, soaking his cheap red tank.
"He's toying with you," Jack growled, slapping an ice pack on Victor's neck—rough but it worked. "See that smug look? Round two's gonna be worse."
Jack dumped half a bottle of water on Victor's face, scrubbed with a towel like sandpaper. "Listen up. Your edge is power and taking punishment. Let him burn out. Then hit back."
Victor glanced across the ring through puffy eyes.
Reggie lounged on the ropes, coach massaging his shoulders. Some blonde feeding him water through a straw.
Victor's corner? Just Jack and a bottle of off-brand spring water.
Ding!
Round two bell—like a funeral toll.
But Victor stood up feeling strong. Jack's words echoed.
Reggie came in hotter, fists raining.
This time, Victor started seeing things—Reggie's shoulder dipped before a jab. He licked his lips before a right hook.
Victor stopped dodging every punch. Like Jack said, he ate them on the thick parts—forehead, shoulders, outside of arms.
A left hook grazed his temple—dizzy spell—but it opened Reggie's right side.
Now!
Victor threw everything into a wild right hook.
No technique. Just 300+ pounds of rage and instinct.
Miracle—it clipped Reggie's ear with a sharp smack.
The crowd gasped. Even the ref raised an eyebrow.
Reggie froze.
He stepped back, touched his red ear, eyes flashing murder.
"Lucky shot, fat boy!"
He snarled, then came in meaner.
Combo after combo drove Victor back.
A liver shot nearly made him puke. An uppercut spun the world.
Reggie was a raging bull now—every punch meant to kill.
Victor got trapped in the corner, ropes digging into his back.
"Hold on! Don't go down!"
Jack's voice sounded miles away. "Wait till he tires… wait…"
Victor hurt everywhere, but it was manageable—way better than swinging a sledgehammer all day.
Then he noticed—Reggie's breathing got heavier. Punches slowed by half a beat.
Adrenaline hit like a shot.
When Reggie threw another right, Victor ducked low, poured his whole body into a left hook—
Ding…
End of round two.
Victor gasped to Jack, "So close!"
Jack roared, "Close ain't shit! Tighten defense! Keep him off your chin and head! You can outlast him!"
One minute into round three, Victor's legs felt like lead—380 pounds is a lot to carry.
He leaned in his corner, gulping air. Sweat stung his eyes.
Through the blur, Reggie bounced light on his feet, pro-boxer eyes locked on him like a leopard on a wounded gazelle.
"Hold on, Victor!"
Jack yelled from ringside, nearly drowned by the crowd. "He's slowing! You see it? He's slowing!"
Victor wiped his eyes with a glove. Yeah—Reggie's footwork wasn't as snappy.
That right straight that nearly dropped him in round two? Now it lagged.
The plan worked—tanking the big shots, draining Reggie's gas.
"Yellow pig, you take a punch better than I thought," Reggie muttered when they got close, flashing that pro's smirk at an amateur. "But I'm ending this."
Victor didn't answer.
His skin screamed from round two's beating.
The crowd jeered nonstop.
"Look at that dead man walking!"
"Reggie, finish this loser!"
"I bet he don't last the round!"
Victor closed his eyes. Breathed deep.
He'd heard this crap his whole life—growing up, people in America are free to mock whoever they want.
The day he challenged a pro boxer, he knew the trash talk wouldn't stop.
Reggie charged like expected, but his combos had a rhythm now—predictable.
Victor guarded high, leaned forward, let most punches land on shoulders and arms.
Each hit sent numbness through muscle, but he gritted his teeth. Waited.
"What the hell's this kid doing?"
Fuko's shocked voice near Jack. "He's eating Reggie's punches like a heavy bag!"
Jack looked at Fuko. "Old man, you're in luck. This is a freak. Heavyweight material."
Fuko scoffed. "With that gut? That garbage footwork?"
"Footwork gets taught. He learns fast—give him six months to a year."
Jack pointed at Victor's frame. "His body lets him throw bombs with basic skills! Fuko, don't sleep on this!"
Fuko hesitated. "I only got money for one pro."
Jack shrugged. "Reggie can fight cruiserweight, maybe top 15–30. You pull 20 grand a year—decent middle class. But a heavyweight? Even ranked 300? That's 50 grand minimum."
Fuko laughed. "20K's real. 50K's a pipe dream."
Jack stayed quiet.
Victor knew what he was doing.
He was counting—Reggie's recovery after combos was half a second longer.
That half-second? His window.
When Reggie lunged again, Victor dropped low, gloves high.
The jab sailed over his head.
Then Victor charged—like a cornered bull—swinging a monster uppercut from way down low.
"Duck and weave! Duck and weave!"
Jack screamed from the apron.
Tyson's move—peek-a-boo rush. Victor barely pulled it off.
The punch—fueled by fury and desperation—ripped through the air with a whoosh.
Reggie's eyes went wide.
Pro instincts made him lean back, but the uppercut grazed his chin.
Victor heard the smack. Contact.
Reggie stumbled back, spine hitting the ropes.
Fuko yelled, "Stop!"
Jack too: "Hold up!"
But Victor didn't stop.
He pressed, hammering left and right hooks into Reggie's ribs like sledgehammers.
First one landed—Reggie's abs clenched.
Second dug deep—right into the soft spot.
"Ugh!"
Reggie grunted in pain, face going ghost-white.
Pros don't make noise in fights. That groan meant Victor hit the bullseye.
The crowd's jeers died. Gasps took over.
Victor heard Jack screaming, "Stop! Stop!"
Fuko too.
Victor hesitated, glancing at them.
That's when pro experience kicked in.
Reggie didn't panic. He slipped sideways, beautiful sway, dodged the follow-up—and cracked a vicious right hook into Victor's jaw.
The world flashed white.
Victor staggered back, ears ringing, barely hearing the ref start the count.