Victor pushed open the familiar red-lacquered wooden door of the Bajiquan Gym, and the hinges let out that same old creak he remembered.
Six months ago, he'd walked in here as a clueless kid who didn't know a jab from a hook. Now? He was the Golden Gloves national champ.
Inside, the air hit him with a mix of incense, sweat, and polished wood floors.
A dozen students were drilling basics, grunting and shouting in rhythm.
Master Zhao stood in the center, rocking a navy training uniform, his silver hair slicked back neat as ever, correcting a young guy's horse stance.
"Shoulders down! Sink your chi into your dantian!"
The old man's voice boomed like he was still thirty, not pushing seventy.
Victor hung back at the door, not wanting to interrupt.
He watched the guy who'd only trained him for three days and felt a warm rush. Those three days weren't about footwork or combos; those were just details. The real gift? Master Zhao had looked him in the eye and said, "Stand your ground, and you can't lose."
"Victor?"
Master Zhao finally spotted him, squinted, then broke into a grin. "No way; it's really you!"
"Master Zhao, long time no see."
Victor greeted him in Mandarin, cupping his fists in respect.
The old man hustled over, looking him up and down. "The news wasn't lying? You actually won the whole damn thing?"
Victor nodded, pulled a fancy wooden box from his backpack, and handed it over with both hands. "A gift. For everything you taught me."
Master Zhao opened it; inside was a gorgeous Yixing purple-sand tea set.
His eyes went wide. "Kid, this is way too much. I only had you for three days, and you paid me!"
"But those three days changed how I see fighting."
Victor meant it. "You gave me confidence."
A proud glint flashed in the old man's eyes. He clapped Victor's shoulder. "Good, good! Come in, sit."
He turned to the class and hollered, "This guy used to train here; now he's the Golden Gloves national champ! Keep grinding; the future's bright!"
Then he led Victor to the back room.
It was quieter back there. Calligraphy and landscape paintings on the walls, a rosewood tea table in the middle.
Master Zhao started brewing tea like he'd done it in his sleep for decades.
"So, Victor,"
He poured two cups and slid one over. "Besides checking in on an old geezer, what's up? Need a favor?"
Victor took the cup with both hands, sipped; the fragrance filled his mouth.
"Yeah, I do."
He set the cup down. "I need three people to run a street-food cart."
Master Zhao raised an eyebrow. "A food cart? You're a boxing champ now."
"Champs gotta eat, and this is legit business. I'll pay wages plus a cut of the profits."
Victor explained, "My pro team will eat there too. I need healthy, fighter-friendly meals. Cops and taxes are handled; Frankie's got the mob side covered."
"Frankie?"
Master Zhao nodded slowly; he knew Frankie and the Gallaghers had their ups and downs, but he let it slide. "What's the pay?"
Victor pulled a sheet from his pocket with the full breakdown: "One day off a week, seven-hour shifts around mealtimes, $60 a week base, plus 2% of daily profits. If I cover room and board, it's a buck a day per person."
"That's solid; Chinatown's offering two-thirds of that."
Master Zhao scanned it, nodded, then stepped out.
Twenty minutes later, he came back with three people:
A wiry guy in his forties, a kind-faced middle-aged woman, and a shy girl around seventeen or eighteen.
"This is Master Wang; used to run a restaurant in the Philippines. His wife, Mrs. Lin; killer cook. Their daughter, Xiao-Mei; she's dating my sixth disciple."
He added, "They just got to the States. Need work."
Victor stood and greeted them in Mandarin: "Master Wang, Mrs. Lin, Xiao-Mei; I'm Victor ."
Master Wang gave a stiff nod. Mrs. Lin sized up the tall, mixed-race kid with curiosity.
Xiao-Mei peeked from behind her mom.
"You in?" Victor asked straight-up. "It's simple fast food; we prep in thermoses and sell on the street."
After some back-and-forth, the Wangs were on board.
Victor thanked Master Zhao, then took his new crew back to the laundromat apartment to get settled.
Right away, he dragged them to Apartment 2312 to start dinner.
"Got big guests tonight. Need real food."
He handed over thirty bucks. "This is overtime. There'll be more nights like this, and I'll always pay extra."
Mrs. Lin checked the kitchen, rattled off a shopping list. Xiao-Mei volunteered to hit the Asian market down the block.
By afternoon, the place was buzzing.
In the living room, Old Jack and Frankie were arguing over some footwork drill.
In the dining room, agent Lowell and promoter Foucault were hashing out deals.
In the kitchen, the Wangs were cooking up a storm; the whole apartment smelled like heaven.
"Nice digs, Victor."
Old Joe showed up with his wife, daughter Karen, and granddaughter Jessica.
Little Jessica made a beeline for the kitchen, mesmerized by Mrs. Lin.
"Uncle, Auntie, welcome."
Victor hugged them, scooped up Karen and Jessica. "Food's almost ready."
As everyone rolled in, Victor got them seated.
The long table was loaded: Kung Pao chicken, steamed fish, stir-fried greens, braised pork; Master Wang even threw in a huge pot of chicken soup.
It was buffet-style; grab your own.
"Everybody,"
Victor raised his glass. "Thanks for coming. Two announcements. First; my pro boxing team is official:
Promoter: Foucault. Agent: Lowell Hadda. Legal: Jimmy McGill. Coaches: Old Jack, Frankie Dunn, Ethan Li. Medical: Michael Li, Liz Chen."
Each name got a raised glass.
"Second; I'm turning pro in July. First fight's already in the works."
Cheers and applause erupted.
Foucault jumped in: "I've got sponsors lined up; companies doing trade . They love backing an Asian-American champ."
Old Jack set down his chopsticks, frowning. "Three months is tight, kid. Your head movement needs work, and your combos aren't smooth yet."
"I know,"
Victor admitted. "But I'm hungry. I need to make noise fast, get a legit shot at the top."
Frankie cut in: "We'll put you through the wringer. But pro boxing ain't amateur; brace yourself."
Therapist Michael raised his glass: "Either way, we're a team now. To Victor's pro debut!"
"Cheers!"
Glasses clinked.
As the party wound down, Victor handed out contracts.
Lowell reviewed every line, nodded. "Solid, Victor. You came prepared."
Victor signed with a grin. "This ain't just my fight. As of today, Team Victor is official."
Xiao-Mei shyly stepped up with a sheet of paper. "Mr. Victor , I made a meal plan based on sports nutrition…"
Victor took it, then immediately passed it to Michael.
Xiao-Mei's face fell, but Michael read it and lit up. "This is gold! Exactly what we need."
He turned to Master Wang. "Looks like your daughter's a key player now."
Master Wang beamed with pride.
Mrs. Lin quietly started clearing plates. Xiao-Mei, realizing she'd stepped into the spotlight, followed to help; the two chatted in simple Mandarin and English.
Later, in the study, Victor sat with Lowell and Foucault.
"I want ten pro fights from July to December. Gotta climb the WBO rankings fast."
"Ten?"
Lowell shot Foucault a look. "That's a heavy schedule."
Foucault rubbed his chin. "Tough, but doable. Give me a week to line it up."
Victor nodded, walked Foucault out.
Lowell stayed, leaning back. "Look, a promoter's job is the whole show: venue, marketing, tickets, TV deals, sponsors, working with the sanctioning bodies for rankings and title shots. They make money on the event and pay you your purse.
My job? I rep you: contracts, endorsements, money management. I help pick the promoter and coaches, keep training on track. Most agents take 10–20%. I'm only asking 10% because I respect you; and 10% of you is worth more than 20% of most guys."
Victor smirked. "My deal with Foucault's gym is just one year, not long-term. Ten fights? He'll be thrilled."
Lowell grinned, stood. "Then I'll find you a better promoter."