Philadelphia, 1985. The sky looked like it was about to cave in.
St. John's Cathedral was packed for Apollo Creed's funeral. Gothic spires stabbed the lead-gray clouds like they were personally pissed at God.
Victor Lee stood in the back row, black suit stretched tight across his shoulders, crushing a single white flower in his left fist. The air smelled like lilies, wet stone, and grief.
Up front, Apollo's widow was trying to muffle sobs that still sliced straight through the silence. Rocky Balboa sat in the first pew like a statue somebody forgot to finish—shoulders locked, jaw clenched, buzz-cut head bowed. Not a tear, not a sound, but the rage rolling off him crackled like static.
Jimmy McGill stood on Victor's right, Michael and Ethan Lee on his left. Ray Miller—freshly using his mom's last name again—hovered behind them, fingers drumming his thigh like he was shadowboxing nerves.
When the pastor finished, people started shuffling. Rocky was the first one on his feet, but he didn't leave. He just stood over the casket staring down like he was daring Apollo to get back up.
Victor told the others to wait outside and walked over.
"Rocky."
He stopped two steps away. "My condolences."
Rocky turned slow. His eyes weren't red—they were burning.
"Victor." Voice like gravel. "Congrats on the Gloves."
"I should've been here sooner—"
"You showed up exactly when you were supposed to," Rocky cut him off. "Every champ deserves respect. Even when people try to trash 'em with their own bullshit opinions."
He gave the casket one last look, then headed for the side door.
Victor followed.
Outside, the cemetery was soaked in cold drizzle. They stopped under an ancient oak, rain dripping off the leaves and spotting Rocky's leather jacket.
"Drago took the fight," Rocky said out of nowhere, staring at the gravediggers in the distance. "Christmas. Moscow."
Victor knew exactly who Ivan Drago was—the Soviet monster who'd just killed Apollo in an exhibition.
"You're really going behind the Iron Curtain?"
Rocky pulled a crumpled plane ticket from his pocket. "Flying to Siberia next week. Paulie says the cold's close enough."
Victor had heard the stories—Rocky punching frozen carcasses, running mountain trails in snowshoes, the whole mountain-man montage.
"You going alone?"
"Alone."
Rocky finally met his eyes. The fire in them made Victor straighten up without thinking.
"Mickey always said boxing's the loneliest sport there is."
Victor got it.
"You're gonna beat him," he said, meaning every word. "I actually think you're the one guy who could've beaten Apollo on his best day."
The corner of Rocky's mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile Victor had seen all day.
"Started out for him," Rocky said. "Now it's bigger than that. It's for everybody who still believes this game's about more than just violence."
He stuck out his hand. "Good luck, champ."
Victor gripped it—calluses on calluses, pure power.
"You too, Rock. Give 'em hell."
Rocky walked off into the rain without looking back, shoulders square, footsteps steady.
Ray came up beside Victor. "Win or lose, the second he steps in that ring? He already won."
Rocky raised a fist without turning around and vanished into the gray.
Victor looked down at the Golden Gloves medal in his palm and finally understood what being a real champion actually meant.
He'd started chasing belts for the money.
But the money was just the surface.
Deep down, he wanted to be the guy who made the whole country eat their words.
The rain got heavier.
Victor stared at Apollo's headstone and whispered the last thing Creed ever said in the ring:
"Look at that—America's hopeless!"
…
Back in Chicago, the late-winter cold slapped Victor across the face the second he stepped out of O'Hare.
Jimmy was yelling at nobody in particular: "Your national champ just landed, Chicago! Show some love!"
Zero reaction from the crowd streaming past.
"We brought home the first American Golden Gloves winner in history!"
Still nothing.
Jimmy threw his hands up. "Fuck this city! They don't deserve a champ—they'll run him out of town!"
Victor zipped his jacket higher. The gold belt in his duffel felt heavier than it should.
He'd pictured ticker-tape, cameras, kids asking for autographs.
Instead they grabbed two cabs like any other travelers.
"No parade, no nothing," Jimmy muttered. "If you were white or Black they'd have shut the airport down."
Victor didn't answer. He already knew why.
The Chicago Boxing Association was supposed to meet them at arrivals.
They never showed.
By the time the cabs hit downtown traffic, a lone Association car finally cut them off and flagged them down.
They herded Victor into the headquarters—an old brick building downtown that smelled like mold and cheap coffee.
Sixth-floor conference room: three people total.
Chairman Marcus Williams, some nervous young secretary, and a cub reporter from a throwaway local paper.
"Victor! Our champion!" Marcus opened his arms like they were best friends. "Sorry about the airport—emergency meeting."
Twenty minutes of fake smiles, two quick photos, and the reporter bailed after three questions.
Marcus kept checking his watch.
He finally slid an envelope across the table. "Your winner's check—ten grand. The Association is proud. First Golden Gloves out of Chicago in fifteen years."
The envelope weighed nothing.
"Thanks," Victor said, voice flat.
"Stay in touch," Marcus was already standing. "Thinking pro yet? Got promoters sniffing around?"
"Still deciding."
The second they hit the street it started snowing.
Victor looked up at the gray skyline and realized the belt didn't fix anything.
"Fuck 'em," Jimmy spat.
Victor just said, "South Side. Let's go home."
Home smelled like Uncle Joe's beef stew and cornbread. Nobody mentioned the ghosting.
Next morning they walked to FoCo Gym through gray slush.
Kids on the corner recognized him this time—pointing, yelling "Champ!" That felt better than any official welcome.
Inside the gym it looked like New Year's. Posters of Victor everywhere, balloons, the works.
FoCo himself was in the ring sparring a kid. He hopped down the second he saw Victor and crushed him in a bear hug.
"About damn time, champ."
He handed over another check—another ten grand.
"That's every dime I can put into marketing you. Let's talk upstairs."
In FoCo's cramped office, sunlight striped the floor through dusty blinds.
"You're done with amateurs," FoCo said straight out. "Pro ring's where legends are made. I want to promote you. Old Jack and Ethan are in as trainers. And guess who Ethan sweet-talked into coming aboard?"
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"Frankie Dunn."
Victor damn near dropped his coffee. Frankie Dunn was old-school royalty.
"He's taking students?"
"Ethan convinced him. Frankie's been through some shit—needs a change of scenery. Kid, your upside is bigger than even you think."
They mapped it out—training, fights, money splits. For the first time since landing, Victor felt the ground under his feet again.
"One more thing," FoCo said. "You need a manager. McGillis recommended somebody, but we're vetting him hard. Tomorrow night—small party. A few candidates'll be there. Just hear them out."
Victor nodded, then asked the question that had been burning since yesterday.
"Who called in all the favors to make sure nobody showed up at the airport?"
FoCo sighed. "Cops grabbed Old Jack for 'paperwork.' Association dragged me into a meeting. Rest of the crew got blocked by Three-K's boys."
"Übermann."
"Who else has that kind of pull?"
FoCo leaned back. "Back in the day one of our guys came home from Korea with all his limbs. Went to 'Nam anyway and lost an arm. Übermann's idea of a joke."
Victor shook his head. "He could've sent shooters. Burned half the block. Instead he just made me sweat one night and did nothing."
"That's the whole point," FoCo said. "Petty motherfucker wanted to remind you who still runs things."
Victor stood up.
"Childish."
He headed for the door.
"See you tomorrow night."
He stepped back into the cold Chicago air already planning how many times he was going to make Übermann choke on that petty revenge.