March 18, 1985—early morning in Colorado Springs, and the sky's got this sickly gray-blue tint, like the whole town's nursing a hangover from winter.
There's already a line snaking outside the Olympic Training Center, folks' breath fogging up in the crisp air like they're all chain-smoking ghosts.
The All-American Golden Gloves heavyweight showdown is about to kick off here, and today's main event's gotta be the elite division heavyweight bout—the opener's that hot mess Victor versus the top-seeded Steve Nelson, the guy who's been making waves.
Victor stands in front of the locker room mirror, those angry eyes boring holes into his reflection, hyping himself up, over and over.
Get madder!
Rage is the ultimate pre-game pump-up.
At 6'1", he ain't towering in the heavyweight ranks, but those 371 pounds? Every muscle's carved like granite, the fat layers giving him natural armor, and a slick sheen of sweat and oil on his skin to cut down on friction—means opponents can't land clean, high-damage shots.
Victor eases on his gear slow and steady, the mouthpiece grinding against his teeth with that gross scraping sound.
"That son of a bitch Max Wilson."
Out of nowhere, Victor slams a fist into the locker, caving the metal door in like it's tinfoil.
That rag from a couple days back splashed Wilson's "exclusive scoop"—'Heavyweight Boxer Accused of Special Services'—naming names, and Victor remembers every damn word.
Old Jack hands him a towel. "Don't let that trash get in your head, Victor. I know Ethan's out handling business, but whatever—today's fight's what counts."
Victor shoots Ethan a look.
Ethan sighs, helping strap on the gear. Mouthguard, headgear, gloves—layer by layer, wrapping up Victor's already sharp features into something straight-up feral, his jaw damn near vanishing under the padding.
"Old Jack grilled me on who I saw—took like three seconds to spill!"
Victor warns Old Jack. "Don't even try to stop me."
Old Jack shrugs. "I ain't advising it. I don't figure your guy's tough enough for the third degree."
Ethan cracks up. "Gotta give the cops a shot at grilling him first."
"Listen up—your opponent's Steve Nelson, golden boy, crowd favorite."
Old Jack drops his voice. "Don't bite on his bait, don't fear it. Make him cocky, stick to the plan."
Victor snorts, grabs his water bottle, and chugs. Spills down his chin, soaks his chest.
He couldn't care less about some Nelson or fanboy darling.
Right now, all he wants is a spot to unload this fireball scorching his chest.
As Victor trudges down the tunnel toward the ring, the crowd erupts in a wall of boos that hits like thunder.
He squints—big screen's looping Wilson's interview clip, that smug reporter yapping about 'reliable sources confirming' the scandal. This crap from days ago, and these idiots are using it to dunk on him!
"Victor, get the hell outta boxing!"
"We want real fights, not hooker hours!"
"Nelson's gonna school your ass!"
The hate pours in from every direction—these morons buying into that tabloid bullshit?
Victor's fists clench, knuckles popping like gunfire—if self-hyping only cranks him to 60 on the rage meter, then this MAOA gene glitch? It's blasting past 600 easy.
Dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine stacking up fast in his veins.
But Victor doesn't roar back like some cartoon bull. No endless stream of curses. The hothead impulse fades—instead, his brain sharpens to a razor's edge, like a volcano chilling in the eye of a hurricane. Victor needs an outlet.
But that quiet? It just fans the crowd's flames higher.
They read his lockdown as weakness.
Hopping up on the canvas, Victor's eyes lock on the Black fighter in the opposite corner.
Steve Nelson—6'2", 245 pounds, muscles etched like a Michelangelo—bouncing light on his toes, blowing kisses to the fans.
Their stares collide, and Nelson flashes a megawatt grin, flipping off a crude gesture—right fist balled, left index finger jamming the hole.
"Heard you're real accommodating, Fat Tiger? Lemme cop a feel on that ass!"
Nelson's voice cuts through the din. "Your punches as soft as your 'other skills'?"
Victor's blood hits boil-over.
He takes one cool step forward—bam, ref's in his grill.
"Keep your distance till the bell!"
The ref barks.
Victor roars at him: "That prick's provoking me—why ain't you shutting him down?!"
Ref glares right back. "One more, and I'm calling it for you—loss by DQ!"
Nelson won't quit: "Your mom know you're slinging ass out there? Or did she teach you the ropes?"
That's the match striking gasoline.
Even the calm cracks—Victor yanks free from the ref, charging Nelson: "I'm gonna kill you! Shatter your teeth so you slurp soup for life!"
Ringside security and both corners swarm in, barely prying them apart.
Crowd loses it—bigger boos, wild laughs.
Victor's temples throb, ears ringing clear, but his head's ice-cold. He half-hears Old Jack yelling tactics, chill out—but those words? Dead air now. He's back in the zone.
Ref lays down the law without playing favorites, so he rings it quick.
"Round One!"
Bell dings with the call.
Victor's a caged beast bolting center-ring. Nelson dances back smooth, snaps a jab like a viper strike.
Victor slips it, but it clips his left arm—no biggie.
"That all you got? Skip breakfast?"
Victor bellows, closing in.
Nelson floats backward, fires two more jabs off Victor's guard: "Save some energy, baby—gotta clock in after this."
Victor's tunnel-visioned on Nelson. Solo.
Suddenly, he drops all midsection guard—like a raging bull charging.
A monster right hook whistles past; Nelson ducks it by a hair, the wind ruffling his buzz.
"Whoa, scary stuff~"
Nelson mocks, then cracks a straight right dead on Victor's kisser.
Victor shells with his fist, counters with his own straight.
The sting in his arm? Wakes him sharper—furious clarity.
"Told you I'd bust your grill!"
Victor's growl rumbles low, like a beast squeezing it from deep in his gut.
Jaw muscles lock, sweat traces his temple, gleaming dangerous under the spots.
Nelson arches a brow, smirks like he's untouchable.
Dude backpedals half a step like he's in Swan Lake, left jab flashing snake-quick.
Thwack!
First jab nails Victor's brow ridge clean.
Headgear soaks some, Victor controls the range—no real damage, but the crowd roars like it's a KO. Clean hit.
Nelson's fan club waves those butterfly-logo flags, hollering: "Send him to the ER, Nelson!"
Victor doesn't flinch—just ramps to savage.
Next two minutes? A brutal ballet gone wrong.
Nelson's fluttering like Ali reborn, jabs and straights peppering Victor's body shots.
His footwork's a blur, every punch pulling gasps from the stands.
Third straight thuds into Victor's liver—makes a wet smack.
"Hang tough!"
Old Jack hollers from the corner, slamming the ropes. "Ride his rhythm!"
Victor's built like a muscle tank—eats every body shot, shells the head and ribs, heavy feet marching forward. No dice, though.
His guard's a rolling fortress; Nelson's fists just tighten Victor's core more.
Eyes glued to Nelson's right—soon as it twitches, Victor's longer reach counters, forcing the block.
"Coward! Your deadbeat dad forget to load you with balls?"
Victor snarls after tanking another left hook. "That your best?"
Nelson's grin fades.
He ups the tempo, tagging body shots nonstop—but they're glancing, barely scoring. Side judge calls 'em touches.
Crowd's boos shift to hushed "whoas."
The folks who showed to watch Victor crumple? They're leaning in now. Some old lady in a wide-brim hat clutches her pearls, eyes saucers.
"He's been crowding Nelson all round! And our seed can't figure it out!"
Announcer booms over the PA: "Victor's a runaway freight train—no brakes!"
Bell for round's end—Victor's eyes glow like embers.
He tracks Nelson slinking to his corner, catches the guy's right forearm twitching funny.
A smug hit of payback washes over him—the plan's clicking.
Back in his spot, Old Jack presses an ice pack to the bruises blooming on Victor's gut.
"Good work—keep hammering that right forearm. It's hurting him bad!"
Old Jack whispers it, hands flying—sneaks some oil on Victor's skin for glide. "But you're behind on points. You gotta drop him!"
Victor's heaving, lungs on fire.
Peers through the ropes—Nelson's crew's massaging him over, babying that right arm.
Ethan hands off the water. "Hydrate, boss."
Victor swishes and spits. "Gonna rip him apart."
First time the crew's seen Victor like this: starved and pissed.
Bell for round two's about to clang.
Victor rises, rinses out.
Rolls his shoulders, catalogs every ache.
Aches ain't weights anymore—they're jet fuel. Warrior gene stacking effects, primed to blow.
Nelson's already center-canvas, crooked finger-wag taunt.
Victor steps up, gloves tap.
This time? No dance floor for Nelson.
Round two kicks—Nelson's still looking loose, but a flicker of nerves in his eyes.
Jabs off-target now, feet not as zippy.
Victor clocks it, lips curl in a mean grin.
Nelson's mouthing off again—Victor detonates.
Tanks two jabs, nose gushes red, then unleashes a right straight like a howitzer.
Nelson slips, right blocks—but the sledgehammer glances, left follows into the gap, grazing his cheekbone. Headgear or not, it rocks him sideways.
Ref jumps in, splitting 'em.
Victor glares daggers at the zebra, gutted he didn't chain that follow-up.
"What's up, you limp-dick has-been?"
Victor apes Nelson's snark. "Your two-step's dragging."
Nelson's woozy, feeling that near-miss—flash of real fear in his eyes. No gear? Head would've caved.
Experience kicks back in quick, though.
He spits the guard, signals ref for a fresh one—granted.
That mini-break? Should be a breather. For Victor? Just drawing out the kill.
Action resumes—Victor's same game plan.
No blind rushes now—measured pressure, herding Nelson to the ropes. Clean work, but he's slinging more hooks.
Nelson's dome takes a wallop; he shakes it off, but the lag's fatal—Victor's pinned him in the pocket.