On TV, Tyson was doing an interview, sweat dripping off his shaved head.
"I just stuck to the game plan," he said, voice surprisingly soft—total opposite of the monster in the ring. "Shout-out to my team. Thank God."
"The scariest part? He's only twenty-one. Sky's the limit."
Victor was jealous as hell. "How come I don't get a post-fight interview?"
Outside, fans were already replaying the fight—some guy mimicking Tyson's peek-a-boo, nearly flipping a chair. Noise poured in. Old Jack answered:
"'Cause you beat that dude half to death!"
Frankie stared at the blank screen like he could still see the stocky wrecking ball tearing up the ring.
"Guess you don't need my two hundred bucks," Frankie finally said, shamelessly stuffing the cash back in his wallet. "You just made two hundred grand!"
"Next time don't just read the stats, Frankie. Numbers lie in the ring."
Victor grinned, handing Ethan a thousand-dollar roll. "Tonight—private bar. Bring the crew. Let's party."
Ethan shook his head. "Gonna need some girls."
Victor laughed. "You front it—one each, standard."
Old Jack chimed in: "Kid reminds me of young Ali. Blazing speed."
"Nah."
Victor shook his head. "Ali floated like a butterfly. Tyson chops like an axe. Different beasts, same kill."
Frankie raised his glass. "To Tyson—redefining heavyweight."
Victor clinked. "To fighting!"
---
Walking back to the hotel, the whole crew was still buzzing about the two-round demolition.
But some mouths were also running about Victor's ruthlessness and that unstoppable final punch. Victor loved it.
---
July 12, 1985 – Morning
Sunlight hit Victor's room like any other day, but today was different.
The alarm hadn't even gone off when the phone ripped through the quiet.
"Victor, FUCK FUCK! Check the papers!"
His manager Lowell exploded through the receiver. Victor held the phone away, frowning.
"Hada, my friend, you're supposed to be lining up my next fight, not waking me up. You know I only get two mornings off after a fight. That's sacred."
"Sleep? At your age?"
"You better have a damn good reason."
"Read the paper. Don't say a word till I get there."
Click.
Victor called the front desk: one newspaper, five eggs, two pounds of steak, big glass of red wine—breakfast.
By the time room service rolled in, he had the morning edition.
Front page photo: Victor's right fist smashing Fujimoto Kyotaro's jaw. Referee's arm around his waist, trying to pull him off.
The ref's whole torso wasn't even two-thirds of Victor's waist.
International Boxing News headline screamed:
"BRUTAL OR ACCIDENT? VICTOR LEE'S KILLER PUNCH."
Victor's mouth twitched. Tossed the paper on the table. Devoured the eggs, steak, chugged the wine.
Coffee machine gurgled—black liquid dripping like the storm brewing in the press.
"They don't know jack about boxing. Japanese bought that headline!"
Victor barked into the phone at Lowell, fingers drumming marble.
Every detail of last night was burned in: intentional? Half the world would believe it. But the ref didn't stop it—not his problem.
"Buy it, sell it—I don't care! Victor, you hit too hard! Knocked his mouthpiece out, punched his forehead, then followed up?"
"Got in the zone! First time's always fast!"
"VICTOR!"
"Fine. What do I say?"
"Boxing commission's coming. Use exactly what you just said."
"Got it."
Phone rang again—official notice: 3 p.m. hearing at Trump Plaza Convention Center. Victor confirmed.
10 a.m.—ate, rested, hit the gym for strength work.
---
3 p.m. – Trump Plaza Convention Center
Outside: three hundred reporters swarming.
Lowell was already there, drilling him in a side room.
Victor walked in—sunglasses, flight jacket. Flashbulbs like a thunderstorm.
One Japanese reporter shouted in thickly accented : "Mr. Lee, how do you feel about Fujimoto becoming a vegetable?"
Victor paused, answered without thinking: "Then he can star in the 'Husband's Eyes' series…"
Reporter's face went black. Lowell yanked his arm: "No talking. Lawyer said nothing."
---
Hearing room
Five commission members sat stiff. Wall of past champs staring down like judges.
Chairman Morris cleared his throat: "Victor, we watched the tape. Ref clearly called stoppage. Why keep punching?"
"Didn't hear him. Crowd was wild!"
Victor didn't remove the shades, sat down: "Thought Fujimoto was tough. He kept standing, arms ready to swing. Warrior."
"Ref grabbed you. You still threw the last punch!"
"How do I explain?"
Victor shrugged: "'Didn't feel the ref. Thought my pants got caught.'"
He leaned back: "Gotta stay locked in. No spare brain for the sidelines."
Members exchanged looks.
One pushed up glasses: "This isn't a game. A pro controls every punch. Mike Tyson helped his opponent up—"
"I'm not Mike."
Victor smiled. "Want me to be Tyson? Next time I'll kiss his forehead."
Room froze.
Lowell kicked him under the table.
"Victor," Morris's voice dropped. "Japanese Boxing Association filed a formal protest. Fujimoto's a national figure. This is international. We need an apology."
Victor leaned back, scanned every face, then slapped his driver's license on the table:
"I'm a U.S. citizen. I beat him fair and square in a public ring. What did I do wrong?"
Morris pressed: "Just an apology."
"Fujimoto doesn't need it. If he does, I'll follow my homeland's tradition—take care of his wife and daughter."
Victor stood, slow and deliberate: "But if Fujimoto wants to sue over a fair fight, talk to my lawyer."
Morris didn't catch every word, but the tone was clear: "It's just an apology, Victor. Not hard—"
Victor lost patience. Walked straight to the press, started freestyling:
"Everyone here only sees the brutal end—Fujimoto's family, his people, they'll blame me.
But Fujimoto doesn't think that. We had a hell of a fight—full throttle, dead even, everything on the table. I got lucky, hit too hard, couldn't pull back.
I won't apologize for one reason: I believe Fujimoto went down happy. He wouldn't want pity. He's a true warrior—no mercy needed.
After he fell, I hope no one uses his name to stir shit against his will."
---
Next day: One-third of U.S. boxing sections exploded with Victor's words.
Hometown Chicago Tribune: "RUTHLESS WINNER, TIGER ROARS IN DEBUT!"
LA Times: Photo of Fujimoto in hospital bed—"ONE PUNCH THAT CHANGED A WARRIOR."
Japanese Asahi Shimbun English edition: "FUJIMOTO'S LIFELONG RIVAL—SAMURAI SPIRIT MOVES AMERICAN."
Victor nearly thought he'd grown yellow hair.
Lowell and Foley's phones blew up.
Foreign sponsors demanded cancellations. Gym got threat letters. Someone threw rotten eggs at Victor's apartment—Frankie sent six Japanese Chicago U students on a "100-day Lake Michigan cruise" three days later.
But then—another voice rose.
In a Detroit auto-workers' bar, Victor's clip played:
"That Jap had it coming!"
A guy in coveralls slammed the table. "Toyota stole how many jobs? Now they wanna cry in the ring?"
"Hell yeah!"
Another chimed: "Victor's a real American fighter! Japan can't take a loss!"
The mood spread across the Rust Belt.
Japanese cars and electronics had gutted factory towns. Victor accidentally became their vent.
Denver Post nailed it: "BOXING: LIFE AND DEATH—YOUR CHOICE."
Lowell felt it most:
1. Trump called—signed Victor to five fights. $50K start, $20K increase each. Promised fighter intros.
2. Fiat Chrysler reached out—wanted Victor to endorse a Jeep.