At the weigh-in for the Chicago boxing qualifiers, the air was thick with the mingled stench of sweat and disinfectant.
Victor stood on the electronic scale, his massive 371-pound frame making the platform groan under the strain. His bare torso was a canvas of bruises from grueling training sessions, his muscles like roughly welded steel parts, coated in a layer of cast iron. There was nothing "lean" about him—just the raw, undulating bulk of pure muscle.
"Weight cleared," the referee announced, avoiding direct eye contact with Victor's bloodthirsty gaze. Cleared? Hell, he was way over the limit. The weigh-in was practically a formality for someone like Victor.
Across from him, last year's national youth runner-up, Los Reido, was casually loosening up his shoulders. The young Latino boxer's skin glowed with a healthy, wheat-colored sheen, his face sporting a practiced, professional smile. But when his eyes met Victor's, that smile froze for a split second. What he saw wasn't the usual fire or nerves of an opponent—it was the intense focus of a predator sizing up its prey.
"Hey, big guy, chill out a bit," Reido quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "This is just a qualifier, not a fight to the death."
Victor's Adam's apple bobbed as if he wanted to curse, but he stayed silent. His gaze drifted past Reido, lost in a distant memory—Apollo Creed's final fight, the Russian giant Drago's lethal uppercut, the piercing wail of an ambulance.
During the drug test, Victor went through the motions like a machine. His manager, Max, stood nearby, wiping sweat from her brow. The tough-as-nails dropout's suit collar was already soaked, her presence commanding yet undeniably alluring.
"Victor, listen," she whispered urgently, "Reido isn't Drago. You don't need to take it out on him—"
"Shut up!" Victor growled, his voice a low rumble like it came from a basement. "This isn't about taking it out on anyone. I'm just going all in!"
That night, the Chicago regional championship was in full swing. With fifteen matches across various weight classes and divisions, the Chicago Arena was packed to the rafters. The heavyweight bout—Victor's fight—was saved for last. By the time he stepped into the ring, it was well past midnight.
When the spotlight hit the canvas, Victor's hulking figure cast a massive shadow. Unlike his usual routine, he didn't play to the crowd for long. He just spun once, letting them catch a glimpse of the crimson tiger tattooed across his back, then silently pounded his gloves together. Each thud sounded like a countdown to something inevitable.
"Fight!"
The bell for the first round barely rang before Victor charged like a beast unleashed. His black boxing boots screeched against the canvas, and the sheer momentum of his 371-pound frame made the front-row spectators lean back instinctively. Breaking from his usual cautious defense, he unleashed a barrage of vicious hooks aimed at Reido's ribs.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Each punch tore through the air like a small cannonball exploding. Victor's muscle memory executed the moves flawlessly, but his eyes weren't on his opponent. Those bloodshot brown pupils reflected a haunting image—Apollo Creed lying in a pool of blood.
"He's aggressive as hell! But he's too reckless!" Old Jack, his coach, yelled from ringside, slamming the ropes. His voice carried the gravelly authority of decades in the ring. "Control the distance! Use your jab, damn it!"
Victor ignored him. All he could hear was the rush of his own blood, his mind screaming one thing: I can be stronger.
Reido, the rising heavyweight star, moved like an eel in water. He stepped back half a pace, and Victor's right hook grazed past his red boxing vest, the wind from the punch pressing the fabric tight against his abs.
"You can't hit me, big guy," Reido taunted, flashing a gold tooth that gleamed under the lights. "You're slower than a drunk bear."
Victor's breathing stayed steady, but sweat was already dripping from his closely cropped hair. Another left hook missed, throwing him off balance for a split second, his right knee trembling. Reido seized the moment, landing a crisp jab square on Victor's right cheek.
Crack!
The sound of jiggling flesh was drowned out by the crowd's gasps. Victor didn't flinch. He licked the blood trickling inside his mouth, the salty tang fueling him as he pressed forward.
"First round over!" The referee raised his hands, separating them.
Victor trudged back to his corner, his steps steady. When he opened his mouth, the white towel wiping his face came away stained red. Old Jack shoved hemostatic cotton into his mouth, his movements as rough as if he were fixing a broken machine.
"What the hell are you thinking?" Jack roared, spit flying onto Victor's sweat-soaked face. "This isn't a street brawl! Use your brain! Reido's waiting for you to screw up, and you're charging in like a damn bull to the slaughter!"
"I can go twelve rounds. You know that," Victor said, his gaze cutting through Jack to Max, who never doubted his choices.
"Listen, kid," Jack grabbed Victor's chin, forcing him to meet his weathered eyes. "Boxing's a thinking man's game, not a butcher shop or a damn cage fight. You don't need to play to the crowd!"
Victor said nothing.
When the second round bell rang, his right cheek was already swelling. Reido had taken control, his jabs stitching red marks across Victor's face like a sewing machine. The scoreboard showed Reido's points piling up.
"Left! Watch his left hook!" Jack shouted, his old leather shoes squeaking against the concrete floor.
But Victor kept pushing, trying to corner Reido.
Crack!
Reido's right hook landed flush on Victor's chin. His vision flickered black, and his knees buckled, nearly dropping him. The crowd erupted, some yelling, "Stop the fight!"
Victor didn't hesitate. He kept swinging.
"Second round over!"
Victor collapsed onto the stool in his corner. Jack dumped a bottle of ice water over his head.
"Wake up, damn it!" Jack's voice cracked with strain. "Control your breathing, read your opponent, wait for your shot… This isn't your first fight, Victor!"
"I just need one opening," Victor muttered, shivering as the ice water ran down his neck into his vest. "Their technique is so polished."
"You've been at this for how long? They've been boxing since they were kids!" Jack ranted. "Boxing's for the sharp, Victor. Anger slows you down. Calmness… calmness lets you see the cracks in their game."
Victor spat out his mouthpiece's drink. "I've got this."
When the third round bell rang, something shifted in Victor's eyes. He charged like a raging bull but started moving his feet, keeping his distance. When Reido's jab came, Victor ducked, the punch grazing his scalp.
Like a coiled spring unleashed, Victor's right fist smashed into Reido's arm, forcing him to stumble sideways. Victor closed in, his left straight snapping like a cannon shot, catching Reido's chin clean.
Boom!
The arena seemed to freeze. Reido's body toppled like a felled tree, his head smacking the canvas with a dull thud. The referee started the count as Victor backed to the neutral corner, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched.
"…Six, seven, eight…"
Reido staggered to his feet, his eyes glassy, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn, but he refused to quit. Victor didn't give him a chance to recover. The next onslaught hit like a storm. A hook slipped through Reido's shaky guard, slamming into his right flank.
"Ugh!" Reido grunted in pain, his defense crumbling.
Victor saw the gap. An uppercut roared upward, carrying his full weight and pent-up rage. Reido's body lifted a few centimeters off the ground before crashing down like a ragdoll.
The referee didn't even finish the count before waving the fight off.
As medics rushed the ring, Victor turned to his corner, yanking out his mouthguard and spitting a bloody glob. He grinned wildly at the crowd below. "Thank me! You got two extra rounds of action!"
The arena exploded with deafening cheers and furious jeers, flashbulbs popping like a thunderstorm.
Victor glanced up at the big screen, where the KO was replaying. In those frames, he didn't see Reido—he saw Drago's cold face and Tyson's calm, feral intensity.
"Fight's over! Victor wins!"
The referee raised Victor's arm, but his eyes cut through the crowd.
"Chicago regional champion, Victor Lee!" the announcer's voice was nearly drowned out by the roar. "He'll represent Chicago and Illinois at the National Boxing Championships starting on the 18th!"
Victor didn't raise his arm. He took the gold belt mechanically. When ESPN's reporter, Max, shoved a mic in his face, he pushed the camera away, remembering Max's instructions. "My friend Apollo was killed. No interviews for now."
But later that night, in a smoky Lincoln Park apartment, Victor pocketed two grand in cash from a Chicago Sports Daily reporter for an exclusive.
The balding, middle-aged journalist's pen scribbled furiously. "So, Apollo's death… that's why you were so… intense tonight?"
Victor's fist clenched and unclenched unconsciously. Profiting off a friend's death felt wrong, but Max had pushed him to do it. "I'm still torn up about it, so I went a little overboard."
The next day, Chicago Sports Daily's front page screamed with a photo of Victor's KO, headlined: "Avenging Angel: The Furious Fists of the Far East Fat Tiger." The real bombshell was the inner-page exclusive: Victor announced he'd turn pro after the national championships.
The news sent shockwaves through his team. Max hadn't been told.
In the meeting room at Foucault's Gym, the argument had raged for two hours.
"You're only nineteen!" Foucault, the promoter, slammed the table, sweat dripping from his forehead to his nose. "Amateur experience is critical for your future—"
"Amateur fights with headgear don't suit me!" Victor shot back, his reasoning solid. "In pro fights, no headgear, my bulk is an advantage!"
Max stayed silent.
Old Jack started to speak, but Victor cut him off, his voice eerily calm. "I need money. Pro fight purses are twenty times what amateurs get."
Jack hurled his playbook to the floor. "Damn it! When did you get so mercenary? Boxing's an art! Look at Ali's butterfly footwork, Sugar Ray's rhythm! Not every fighter needs to knock—"
"But knockouts pay," Victor said, his gaze sweeping the room. "And they can knock out anyone, like Drago did to Apollo. Process doesn't matter—the outcome's set."
The room fell silent.
Eventually, they relented. Jack and Foucault backed Victor.
After everyone left, Max, who'd been quietly leaning against a punching bag, finally spoke. "That's not the real reason."
Victor didn't answer, but his knuckles tapped an uneasy rhythm on the table.
"Listen, Victor, you're disrespecting me," Max said, her perfume barely masking her anger. "Just like when we first met, and you tried to get me to move into your apartment. Going pro? You should've told me first. I could've sold that news for a real price, not this mess where I'm scrambling with no plan!"
"I don't need a babysitter," Victor said, standing. His shadow loomed over the room. The thrill of learning Tyson had gone pro fueled his urgency to face him. "Either you're with me for the riches, or you're out."
Max stared at him, then left with one final line: "Victor, we're in this together."