After that night's training wrapped up, Max cornered Victor in the locker room.
His agent shoved a newspaper clipping into his hand: Tyson's latest fight on one side, Drago defending his European title on the other.
"I haven't known you long, Victor. The day Apollo died, you were pissed. Sure, maybe it was because you two were tight, but you're not the kind of guy who'd pick a fight with Drago just to avenge Apollo. That rage wasn't about getting revenge for him.
Deep down, the only person who matters to you is you. You're like you don't even belong to this world—always passively pushing people away while aggressively chasing your own grind. It's exhausting. The only folks who've ever cracked that wall are Old Joe and maybe Michael Ethan, and even they're just sidekicks to Old Joe in your head."
Max's voice was harder than Victor had ever heard it. "But now you're suddenly dying to turn pro? There's gotta be another reason. You gonna tell me what it is?"
Victor wiped blood and sweat off his face with a towel, silent for a long time before he finally spoke.
"You know why kids from the projects box, Max? It ain't some bullshit art form."
He locked eyes with her. "Max, we're just like you. America only gives us a couple roads to walk. A smart girl like you could still end up on the bottom because of tuition."
Max let out a long sigh, pissed off by yet another one of Victor's lies. "Don't you dare say it's for the money! With your skills, you could sell your body and never go broke. I want the truth."
Victor tossed his notebook at her. "That's exactly what I think. Read it yourself."
"You keep your real feelings in a diary? What are you, Truman holding up Roosevelt's flag while tossing his whole playbook in the trash?"
Max chucked the notebook aside. "I'd rather hear your lies straight from your mouth—at least when you curse, you're being real!"
Victor picked it up, flipped to the first page he'd written last night: "Defeat the strong man; conquer the most beautiful woman!"
Max read a couple lines, saw the fire in Victor's eyes, and got it.
"So that's the kind of guy you are! But where the hell are the knights in America?"
She didn't hold back, her chest heaving under that white T-shirt like it was about to rip. "All the knights died in Europe. The Americans still breathing are illegals, cowards who never shipped out, and a whole generation born after the war."
Victor stared right back. "America's America. Chicago's Chicago. And I'm me."
"You're overthinking it. Every pore of capital is dripping with blood and filth. Anything it touches turns rotten—America, pro boxing, all of it. Being able to fight isn't the only thing that matters!"
Max pulled a folder from her briefcase. "Because you don't trust anybody, here's my resignation letter. Effective end of March."
She paused. "By then you'll have just finished the All-American Championships."
Victor took the paper; it shook a little in his huge hands.
When he looked up again, Max was already at the door, not looking back.
"I'll find you a new agent," she said.
Her silhouette looked hunched under the hallway lights. "Someone who can handle 'murder business.'"
Victor tried to stop her. "What about your money problems?"
To Max, it sounded like a threat.
"Victor, that's none of your business."
She shrugged like she didn't care. "I'll send you the invoices, you reimburse me, pay my last check, and we're square."
The door slammed. The echo bounced around the empty locker room like a gunshot.
Victor sat alone on the bench, unconsciously pounding his fist into the locker next to him.
Metal crumpled. In that dent, Victor realized he'd probably just lost a friend—the same way North Moon flew off while Little An was still down on the ground, and Dreamer… who knows where the hell Dreamer went.
Walking out of the gym, the Chicago night wind blew a hot tear off his cheek.
Victor told himself it was just sweat, then strode toward the neon-soaked streets—toward the future waiting for him, full of blood and money.
······
March in Colorado Springs. The air still carried winter's bite. A few of them had already rolled into town for the national stage of the All-American Championships.
Max was all business now.
Victor stood in front of the hotel gym's floor-to-ceiling window, watching the Rocky Mountains sharpen in the morning light.
His reflection stared back—6'1" looking short under 371 pounds of muscle, plus that rough face Old Jack said could make kids cry, now sporting a beard thick enough to finally show where his jawline was.
"Quit spacing out. Max is the kind of girl who makes up her mind and sticks to it. Unless the world ends today, she's gone."
Michael's voice came from behind. "We've still got three strength sets. Gotta keep the muscles firing before Old Jack gets back."
Victor turned. Michael was already at the barbell rack, eyes locked on him.
Michael was almost six inches shorter and two hundred pounds lighter, but the food that guy cooked had made Victor suffer plenty.
"What do you think I should do to keep her?"
Victor grumbled as he lumbered over to the gear, his heavy steps making the wood floor groan like it was about to snap.
Everyone else in the gym turned to stare.
A blonde on the treadmill nearly tripped, eyes bugging out at Victor's triceps that looked like a mini fridge.
Victor noticed, dropped his gaze out of habit—eight years as the fat kid had trained him to feel like the freak in any crowd.
"Hey, forget them. You ain't keeping Max. Not even with a missile."
Michael tossed him a pair of training gloves. "Lower body today. Nelson loves going after legs."
Victor slipped the gloves on, thinking about the fight tape he'd watched yesterday.
Steve Nelson—22 years old, the new golden boy of amateur boxing, 27-1 record.
His footwork floated like a butterfly, jab stung like a bee. Three pro promoters had already thrown big money at him.
"You think I can take him?"
Victor asked, voice so low it was almost a whisper.
"What time is it? Asking me that now is like shaking a Magic 8-Ball before a war."
Michael stopped adjusting plates and looked him dead in the eye. "What'd Old Jack always say? On the ring, there's only winners and losers. Right now you sound like a damn loser asking me that."
Victor's fists clenched.
He knew Michael was right, but that doubt—Can I really do this?—was the same thing every guy questioned while secretly believing he was untouchable.
"One more squat set, then evasion drills."
Michael cut off the daydream. "Nelson's faster than you, but your power's on another planet. Land one clean shot…"
Victor nodded, hoisted the bar onto his thick shoulders.
Every rep tore muscle fibers and rebuilt them stronger.
Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't stop. The kid who used to huff and puff just taking a dump had turned into a beast squatting 660 pounds for reps.
"Last set!"
Michael yelled. "Picture that's Nelson's head!"
Victor roared, quads flexing like steel cables.
Right then the gym door flew open.
"We've got a problem!"
Ethan burst in, clutching a newspaper, face white as a ghost. "That ESPN prick Max Wilson just dropped an article about Victor!"
Michael snatched the paper, his frown getting deeper by the second.
Victor dropped the bar, heart racing—not from the workout, but from a bad feeling crawling up his spine.
"Shut up!"
Max stormed in right behind, scanning the room, furious. "Back to the room—now!"
Back in the suite, everybody was there.
Max looked like she was about to explode.
The whole crew was pissed.
"'Providing sexual services to rich widows'?"
Michael read the headline out loud, voice dripping with disbelief. "What the actual hell? Chicago PD closed that case! Who the fuck leaked it?"
Victor felt his blood turn to ice.
He grabbed the paper, thick fingers nearly ripping right through it.
The photo was him last year outside Chicago PD. The headline screamed:
All-American Championships Rocked by Scandal: Obese Boxer Once Arrested for 'Special Services'
"That son of a bitch!"
Victor's voice shook with rage. "Chicago PD said they weren't pursuing charges!"
Max looked like her whole worldview just shattered. She pointed at Victor. "This is real?"
Victor glanced at her. "I thought you knew when you brought it up the other day."
Max took a step back, pure disgust on her face. "You're nineteen! You actually did that?"
Victor shrugged. "Made money. Not shameful."
"It's disgusting!"
Max wrinkled her nose. "If that's true, screw the money!"
"What's the big deal?"
Old Jack didn't see the problem. "Those rich ladies' husbands died—not off at war! When we came back from Spain, every guy's wife was pregnant!"
"Shut it, Old Jack!"
Foucault jumped in. "Point is, by 2 p.m. today the American Boxing Association is sending someone to question us. If we can't prove this is slander, they'll probably disqualify us!"
Max snapped out of it. "How bad is it right now?"
Ethan bit his lip. "Whole arena's talking. I just came from the committee—at least twenty reporters are digging for your 'story.'"
Michael punched a heavy bag so hard it swung wild. "That Wilson guy's the ESPN jerk you blew off last week. This is payback!"
Victor felt dizzy.
He remembered that slick-haired reporter in the expensive suit, smirking: "Victor, as a… uh, uniquely sized fighter, do you really think lady luck will carry you past the first round at nationals?"
Victor had just walked away without a word.
Now he wished he'd smashed the guy's face in.
"Where'd he even get this?"
Victor growled. "Maybe we just take him out!"