Sweat rolled down Victor's face, dripping onto the locker-room floor.
He'd just peeled off his blood-soaked gloves. Knuckles shredded, raw red meat showing through; yeah, landing 1,100 pounds per punch feels great… until your hands pay the price.
Damn that Fujimoto.
The room stank of sweat, rust, and bleach.
Then; strangers at the door.
"You again?"
Victor whipped around, glaring at the tiny Japanese drug tester holding a sample bottle, stone-faced.
"Mr. Victor, per regulations, we need another urine sample."
Her voice was flat; infuriatingly calm.
Victor slammed a towel to the floor. "Didn't I just piss in a cup last night? You people targeting me?"
His roar echoed. Chest heaving, veins popping.
Frankie and Old Jack jumped in, barking at the woman.
No use.
She pushed up her glasses. "I'm from Hokkaido. No relation to Kyotaro Fujimoto. As for frequency; your opponent lost consciousness en route to the hospital. He's in the ICU."
Victor froze, then let out a cold laugh. "So what? Life and death in the ring. Guy had no business stepping to me."
He ripped off his wraps, tossed them in the trash, then dropped his shorts right there. "Want urine? Fine…"
But the woman actually held the bottle steady.
Victor blinked; speechless. Felt like he was the one getting violated.
He yanked his pants up, made a show of splashing during the handoff. Ethan passed the sample; piss splattered on her white coat.
She just frowned, labeled it, said nothing.
"Get out."
Victor tied his waistband and stormed to the shower. "Tell Fujimoto's family to save for the funeral. I'll send flowers."
Hot water pounded his chiseled frame. Blood-tinged foam spiraled down the drain.
Eyes closed, he replayed Fujimoto's collapse; left eye swollen shut, jaw hanging crooked, slumped on the ropes like a rag doll.
"Trash."
Victor muttered, scrubbing shampoo into his scalp like he was punishing it.
When he stepped out in a towel, the TV was on; live from MGM Grand Garden Arena in Vegas.
Frankie and Old Jack were parked in front of it, beers in hand.
"Hey, killer!"
Frankie raised a bottle. "Heard you put that Jap in the ICU? Nice work!"
Victor shook out his wet hair, grabbed a beer, and popped the cap with his teeth. "He asked for it."
Cold brew slid down; wheat-sweet, refueling the tank, easing the ache.
On TV, the announcer hyped the main event: "Next up, from Brooklyn, New York; 4-0, 100% KO; 'Iron' Mike Tyson!"
"Fuck, that little freak again."
Frankie sneered. "Look at his opponent; George Alderson, 6'4", 80-inch reach. Size mismatch is insane."
Old Jack squinted. "Tyson's no joke. That kid's foot speed;"
"Give it up!"
Frankie cut in. "Alderson just jabs and keeps range. Tyson's stubby legs can't close. I got $200 on Alderson, six rounds max."
Victor burst out laughing, foam spilling from his lips. "Frankie, you're a damn idiot."
He flipped open his brick phone, dialed fast. Michael confirmed the bet.
"I put two hundred grand on Tyson finishing it in two; at Trump's casino."
"Two hundred thousand? You nuts?"
Frankie's eyes bugged. "I'd let you take my ass for that kinda cash. Tyson's height;"
"Height?"
Victor grinned like a wolf. "Watch a real beast. I cashed out liquidity and the shares for this."
"No way!"
"Then let's make it fun."
Victor pulled a roll of hundreds. "Thousand bucks says I'm right."
Frankie shook his head, slapped down five bills. "I say four rounds!"
Victor laughed. "You're half-believing already."
"Why not go live?"
"Japanese love snipers."
"We're good here."
The bell rang. The arena exploded.
Tyson shot out like a caged tiger; stocky, silent, lethal.
Black boots barely kissed the canvas; a panther stalking.
"Jesus, he's fast!"
Frankie leaned forward, beer frozen mid-air.
"Told you, Frankie. Tyson's not your average heavyweight. He's the biggest threat on my path."
Victor smirked, eyes locked on the screen. "Watch every move. I need you two to help me beat him."
Frankie and Old Jack kept watching; Victor vs. Tyson was still ten-plus fights away.
He was ranked 2,000+ in WBO. Beating Fujimoto might bump him 100 spots. Purse: $30K. Tyson? $200K; Trump money.
Back to the fight.
Alderson tried to jab and control distance. 6'5", 83-inch reach; should've been easy. That's what Frankie thought.
"See? Just like;"
Frankie's words died. Tyson dipped, slipped the jab in one fluid arc; rehearsed a thousand times.
Shoulders, head; perfect curve.
BAM!
Left hook to the liver. Alderson's face went ghost-white.
No breather. Tyson unloaded; storm of combos.
Right straight, left hook, right uppercut; every shot threading the needle.
"Holy shit!"
"Pay attention, Frankie."
Victor tapped the screen, nail clinking his glass. "That's your 'height advantage.' Big body, big target; slow to adjust."
Frankie frowned, tracing condensation. "But it's not logical. Alderson's a foot taller, ten inches longer reach…"
"Numbers look pretty on paper."
Victor cut him off, eyes glued. "Tyson doesn't need stats. He's rewriting the damn textbook."
"Champions don't explain."
Old Jack offered: "Target the ribs, Victor. Wear bigger trunks, hike 'em high; less surface area."
"Fury's trick…"
Frankie grumbled. "Dirty, but…"
Old Jack laughed. "If it works!"
On screen, Alderson staggered back, ropes holding him up.
Blond hair plastered to his forehead.
Tyson swayed side to side, pendulum-like, hunting the angle.
Eyes locked; predator and prey.
"He's like…"
Frankie whispered. "A beast."
Victor nodded. "A trained beast. Look at his feet; better than mine."
Tyson feinted low. Alderson bit.
NOW!
Victor slapped the table.
Tyson exploded upward; right hand cracked through, temple shot.
Alderson froze, then crumpled like a marionette with cut strings.
Ref started the count. Alderson rose at eight, legs jelly, eyes glassy.
"He's done."
Victor drained his beer, slammed the bottle down.
Bell saved him; back to the corner.
His team iced his cheek, faces grim.
"They should stop it."
Victor waved Old Jack for another round.
Frankie shook his head. "Alderson won't quit."
Round two. Alderson cautious, jabbing.
But Tyson's head movement; snake-like, rhythmic chaos.
"How do I beat him?"
"Clinch! Smother him!"
"Dirty, but yeah; lean on him, wear him down!"
"And scream in his ear!"
Victor facepalmed; these guys were savage. And already assuming he might not beat Tyson.
"He's too slippery. We keep the hexagon drills going."
Tyson faked the dip again; Alderson reacted.
BOOM.
Right hand over the top; temple again.
Alderson went rigid, then down.
This time, no movement. Count started. He got up, shook his head on camera.
Ref waved it off.
Alderson's corner rushed the ring. Tyson just turned, calm as a morning jog.
Replay: the punch came from an impossible angle.
"Under two rounds!"
Frankie was stunned. "This is insane."
Victor sipped fresh beer, foam on his stubble. "Insane? No. Science. Tyson just rewrote heavyweight physics."
"But how? Alderson's so much bigger…"
"Look."
Victor pointed at the slow-mo. "Tyson never attacks straight. Every move's a curve; like…"
He traced a half-circle in the air. "Planetary orbit. Big guys can't read distance or angle."
Frankie nodded slowly. "And the explosiveness…"
"Not just power."
Victor cut in. "Rhythm. Most fighters have patterns. Tyson? Jazz. You never know if the next note's fast or slow."