Victor didn't really know the guy.
When Major Kiefer politely stepped out of the study, Victor caught a flicker in the retired officer's eyes—like a chess player sliding a knight into a crucial square, real careful.
The door hadn't even clicked shut before Lowell Hadda cut straight to the chase, sharp as a surgeon.
He talked with his hands, fingers ticking off points like he was checking boxes on some invisible list.
"WBO's the best fit for a fighter with your style."
Lowell pulled out color-coded data sheets from a beat-up leather briefcase—not your average printouts. Victor spotted "Revision 3.2" in the footer. This dude had obsessed over it.
"Check this bar graph," Lowell said, sliding three charts across the desk. "IBF champs average 9.3 qualifier fights to defend a belt. WBO? Just 6.8. That's eight months shaved off your timeline."
As Victor scanned the numbers, Lowell whipped out another file—red-inked newspaper clippings, all about Asian fighters getting screwed by refs.
"America loves to brag about freedom, the melting pot, the whole 'land of opportunity' bit," he said, jabbing a finger at a headline: Ref Stoppage Sparks Racial Controversy. "But let's be real—when you knock out a white guy, the ref jumps in fast. When a white guy's got you on the ropes? They'll let you 'prove yourself.'"
He leaned back. "I'm from Texas. Down South, the racism's thick. I stuck up for Black folks once—haven't been back since. Freedom means everyone gets to hate who they want, I guess."
"Victor, you've got a steeper hill than most. Until you're champ, you'll take smaller cuts, lower purses."
The room felt ten degrees colder.
Then came the real gut punch: a spreadsheet tracking every Asian boxer over the last 15 years, every controversial round marked in red.
"But your first three fights? I've locked in fair refs," he said calmly. "They owe me."
When the talk shifted to opponents, Lowell went full chess master.
"Your identity's gonna put a target on your back. Early wins will get questioned, downplayed, or straight-up sabotaged."
"They already know your amateur style. They'll study you, counter you—that's the best case, because at least they'll fight you. Ticket sales, appearance fees."
"But a lot of guys won't touch a dominant fighter. Lose, and they're done. Win, and it's 'no big deal.' For the next year or two, you might only get tomato cans."
He had a six-month fight plan mapped out—specific opponents, timelines, the works.
"Just a starting point," Lowell said. "Max Black's got a solid plan too—"
He paused, crow's feet crinkling. "But her schedule's insane."
He pulled up a side-by-side: Max's looked like a sheer cliff; his was a smart staircase.
"She wants six fights in seven months. But based on your recovery curve—"
Victor cut in: "You know Max?"
Lowell's mouth twitched. "University of Tennessee. Short sports management course."
For the first time, Lowell's mask slipped—just a flash of that "proud but exhausted uncle" look you give a stubborn kid who keeps surprising you.
That tiny crack of humanity sold Victor harder than any stat.
When Lowell snapped his briefcase shut—click—it sounded like the bell at the end of a round.
One last pitch sealed it:
"Max asked me to pass this along. It's our joint advice: get a white girlfriend. Stir up some 'he only dates white girls' gossip. Makes you palatable faster."
---
The party was winding down when Victor stepped onto the balcony, the icy air slapping him awake.
Footsteps behind him—Ishan.
"That guy's sharp, huh?"
Ishan leaned on the railing, breath fogging in the night.
Victor didn't answer right away.
Lowell was impressive, no doubt—but hiring a white agent in the South Side community? That'd stir up noise. Plenty of agents out there.
Ishan might not be polished, but he was family. He'd shoot straight.
"You're thinking about Max," Ishan said, reading him like a book.
Victor nodded. "What'll the community say? Giving the gig to an outsider?"
"The community ain't taking punches for you."
Ishan's voice dropped, serious. "Too many talented Black fighters got ruined by trash agents. Bad contracts, wrong matchups—washed up by 20."
He turned to Victor. "You're a Golden Gloves champ. The community can't cage you. Even the Bellmans wouldn't touch a Golden Gloves kid."
Victor stared out at Chicago's lights.
Ishan was right. But it still felt heavy.
"Lowell mentioned a promoter—Eddie Duane. Said steer clear."
"Yup. That type'll bleed you dry and toss you. Lowell knowing that means he's legit."
Ishan's face darkened. "But I'm talking about Frankie Dunn."
"Huh?"
Scratch that—Ishan reading my mind.
Back inside, Victor saw Lowell talking to Old Jack.
Conversation stopped when Victor walked up.
"How you leaning?" Old Jack asked.
Victor took a deep breath.
He felt every eye in the room—Fokker, Ishan, Old Jack, even Frankie Dunn watching from across the hall.
"I'll give it a shot," Victor said, locking eyes with Lowell. "But I've got conditions."
Lowell raised an eyebrow. "Name 'em."
"You handle my stuff personally—no junior associates. And when I need opponents, you line 'em up."
He paused. "I keep final say, especially on who I fight."
Lowell went from surprised to impressed. "Fair. Done."
He extended a hand. "Welcome to the pros, Victor."
The handshake felt like a weight lifting.
Decision made. Path locked in.
Everything was about to change.
---
Victor stood at the door, breath fogging in the freezing air.
Under the streetlights, snowflakes danced—spiraling up, diving down, waltzing in the yellow glow.
He zipped his hoodie tighter, but the cold still snuck in, prickling his skin.
5:17 a.m. The block was dead quiet, just a few windows glowing.
"Seventeen-kilometer fartlek runs, three times a week."
Victor muttered his plan like a spell against the chill.
He stretched, then took off—sneakers crunching fresh snow.
His mind outran his feet.
Property taxes, laundromat profits, cash flow—numbers swirling like the snow, light but heavy.
During sprints, blood pounded in his temples.
On jogs, he felt every breath, lungs opening and closing like clockwork.
He wasn't that kid who could barely waddle anymore. This control over his body? It was the one place effort always paid off.
Ninety minutes later, soaked in sweat, he got home.
Hot shower, fresh clothes, then straight to the laundromat's second-floor office.
Jimmy, Michael, and Ishan were already there, ledgers spread out.
"How's it look?"
Victor asked, toweling his dripping hair.
Jimmy adjusted his glasses. "Last week averaged seven bucks a day. Better than last month."
Victor tapped the ledger, frowning deeper.
"Two properties' taxes run over $800 a year, plus sanitation, environmental fees… we're barely breaking even."
He looked up. "We need something else."
Michael shrugged. "Laundromat's steady, Victor. Thin margins, though."
"Steady ain't enough."
Victor's voice was low. "I've got an idea—micro-loans. $100, $200. Higher interest than banks, lower than the mob."
The room went dead.
Ishan and Michael swapped looks. Jimmy shook his head flat-out.
"No way," Jimmy said. "People who qualify for credit cards use banks. People who don't? The mob's got 'em. The ones stuck in the middle won't pay you back."
"We could offer better terms—"
"Higher risk," Jimmy cut in. "You know who needs $200? Gamblers, junkies, or folks with their backs against the wall. Default rate's brutal."
Victor went quiet.
Jimmy was right. But giving up stung.
"We've gotta try something."
Jimmy stared at him, then cracked a grin. "You're stubborn as hell."
He pulled a file from the drawer. "Remember those 10,000 Nike shares you bought last year? Cost under $20K."
Victor nodded.
"Blair sent Q1 earnings. That Bulls kid—Michael something—brought Nike back from the dead. Shares more than doubled. Worth $55K now."
He slid the file over. "Cash out part of it. Solves your cash flow."
Victor's fingers hovered, then pushed it back. "Not selling."
"Why?!" Jimmy couldn't believe it. "It's the easy fix!"
"Because I believe in the company—or rather, I believe Jordan's gonna make me way more."
Victor's voice was calm, eyes steady. "I'm making money to buy more of their stock."
Jimmy sighed. "Victor, business isn't faith. It's Lake Michigan—rises and falls. Sometimes you gotta be practical."
"This is my choice."
Victor stood, walked to the window.
Snow had stopped, but the sky stayed gray.
"I need steady cash flow, not a one-time payout."
Silence again.
Ishan and Michael slipped out, leaving Jimmy and Victor.
"You know the problem?" Jimmy finally said. "You see everything black-and-white. Business is gray, Victor."
Victor turned. "So as a guy, I can't make white people's money?"
"That's tough unless you work for them."
Jimmy stood. "But… what about street vending? Just file with the precinct, pay taxes—no one'll mess with you. Chinatown's small, but it's popping."
Victor's eyes lit up. "Worth a shot."
Jimmy pulled out a notebook he'd already prepped. "Then let's plan it out!"