fternoon sparring kicks off like clockwork.
Coach Foucault sets up a few matchups, and Victor's first up against Reggie again. The gym buzzes with whispers—makes Foucault side-eye things. Something go down before?
Before he can speak, Reggie's already hopping the ropes.
Victor catches Foucault's nod and climbs in.
The air's thick with sweat, leather, and bleach.
Victor Lee stands in his corner, feeling the tight wrap of tape on his knuckles.
Day twenty-one at Old Jack's gym, itching to climb the ranks and ditch the South Side for good.
"Three rounds, light contact,"
Foucault announces from center ring, sharp eyes flicking between Victor and Reggie, guessing trouble. "This is skill work, not KO city."
Victor glances across at Reggie.
The light-heavy's half a head taller, arms knotted with ink, staring him down like a wolf eyeing dinner.
"Don't sweat it, rookie,"
Reggie grins through his mouthpiece, gold tooth glinting with pure venom. "I'll go easy."
A few chuckles ripple through the gym.
Foucault's "Reggie" warning feels like routine.
Victor feels every pair of eyes—curious, mocking, straight-up dismissive.
He doesn't bite. Just takes the guard Old Jack hands him and pops it in.
"Remember what I taught you,"
Old Jack mutters, his sixty-something face a roadmap of old fights. "Move, watch, don't let him rattle you."
Victor nods. Canvas creaks under his kicks.
Deep breaths to calm the jackhammer in his chest.
Bell.
Round one: Reggie explodes like a caged pit bull.
Screw "light contact"—his first jab rockets straight for Victor's face with bad intentions.
Victor barely slips it, feels the wind graze his cheekbone.
"Hey!"
Foucault barks from ringside. "I said light!"
Old Jack shoots him a look—Foucault doesn't stop the fight or rein Reggie in. Just lets it ride.
Sure enough, Reggie ignores him. Uses his height and reach, peppering Victor's head with jabs, dancing like he's toying with a clumsy newbie.
Victor swings back—big hooks whistle through empty air.
"Don't chase him! Save gas!"
Old Jack hollers over the jeers. "Control distance, damn it!"
Sweat beads on Victor's forehead, T-shirt sticking to his back.
Reggie's punches aren't killers, but every tap screams I can hit you whenever I want.
Round bell—sweet mercy.
Victor stumbles to his corner, sucking wind.
Old Jack yanks the guard.
"What the hell you thinking?"
he growls low. "Chasing him? This ain't a street brawl."
Victor wipes his face. "I wanna drop him!"
"Drop my ass!"
Old Jack scoffs. "He's a hundred-twenty pounds lighter—burns half your energy moving. Round two, don't chase. Box him to the ropes."
Before round two, Reggie flashes a throat-slash. More laughs.
Bell.
Victor switches gears.
No more chasing. Tight footwork, crowding Reggie inch by inch toward the ropes.
Reggie didn't see it coming—panic flickers in his eyes.
Victor capitalizes: left hook skims Reggie's ear. First clean shot of the day.
"That's it!"
Old Jack claps.
Getting cornered by a rookie lights a fire under Reggie.
Eyes turn feral. "Light contact"? Out the window.
A vicious right hook screams in—Victor blocks with both arms, eats it easy.
"Reggie!"
Foucault roars. "Ease up!"
Reggie's deaf. Charges like a mad bull, bombs raining.
Victor's pissed now—adrenaline floods. He fires back.
This ain't drills. This is war.
In the clinch, Victor spots the opening, plants a heavy right hook square into Reggie's ribs.
"Fuck!"
Reggie gasps, face ghost-white, drops to one knee.
Gym goes dead silent.
Victor doesn't follow up—just steps back, waits for the ref.
Heart's pounding—not tired, shocked. Did I just floor him?
Foucault storms the ring, frowning. "Light contact, Lee! What the hell?"
"My bad,"
Victor says, words mushy through the guard. "I pulled it. No broken ribs."
Old Jack yells from the apron: "Foucault, you let Reggie unload—why no stoppage?"
Reggie's up, wheezing, sweat pouring, eyes pure murder.
"No biggie, rookie,"
he snarls, gold tooth flashing cold. "We ain't done."
Foucault doesn't stop it—Victor did pull the punch. Full power? Reggie'd be in the ER.
Round three bell—judgment day.
Victor knows it's gonna hurt.
Reggie comes out swinging for blood—combos fast and nasty, no "practice" left.
Victor turtles up, defending center ring.
"Move! Move!"
Old Jack screams, but Victor's ears ring with his own breath and pulse.
Reggie's left hook slips through, tags Victor's right rib.
Barely staggers him. Victor backs to the ropes—bait.
Reggie bites, charges with a straight right to the face.
Split-second: Victor's body reacts on instinct—slips the punch, snaps a left hook like a cobra.
CRACK!
Time freezes.
Reggie's eyes glaze. His big frame timberrrs—crashes to the canvas with a thud.
Dead. Silence.
Jaws drop. Light-heavy Reggie, ranked #29, flatlined by a rookie heavyweight?
Reggie's fingers twitch, he groans, tries to rise—Foucault's already in, waving it off.
"Enough! Sparring over!"
He glares at Victor, then checks Reggie.
Victor stares at his glove—knuckles throb, real contact. Luck? Or did I just do that?
Silence shatters—whistles, "holy shit," "no way."
Victor spits the guard, blood-tinged saliva. Lip's split somewhere.
Old Jack vaults the ropes, grabs Victor's shoulder.
"Good shit, kid. Foucault's gotta rethink his golden boy now."
Low: "But trouble's coming. Keep your .38 close these days."
Victor glances across—Reggie's up, supported, eyes burning holes through him.
Foucault's face? Shock, doubt, and a hint of wariness.
Sure enough, he pulls Reggie aside, then storms over.
"What the fuck was that? Light contact!"
Victor meets his fire calm. "Sorry, Coach. Accident. I didn't wanna hurt him—if I went full, he'd be in the hospital."
"Accident?"
Foucault sneers. "That was full power!"
"No, he didn't. Victor hits 485 on the bag,"
Old Jack cuts in. "Not champ level, but you know what that does to ribs or jaw. Reggie got cocky—guard down."
Foucault spins to Jack—old beef clear. "Jack, this ain't your call. Reggie's got a big fight next week—"
"He's fine. Teachable moment,"
Old Jack says cool. "Pros don't get 'light contact.'"
Reggie's back on his feet, shoves helpers off, staggers over.
"You're fucking dead!"
Lunges at Victor.
Foucault grabs him. "Enough! Cool it!"
Scans the gym. "Session over. Everybody out!"
Fighters trade looks, start packing slow.
Reggie jerks free, snarls at Victor: "This ain't over, chink."
Victor stares blank. "Anytime."
"Locker room,"
Old Jack pushes Victor. "Now."
Victor ducks through the gym, every eye on him.
Curiosity, respect—but mostly caution and beef.
He didn't just win a spar. He broke the gym's food chain.
Locker room door shuts. Muffled yelling leaks from Foucault's office.
Most clear out. Foucault calls Jack in.
Through the cracked door, Victor catches the heat.
"…You know who's backing Reggie! We need him!"
Foucault.
"…Gym's betting on Reggie cashing out. Why not bet bigger on Victor?"
Jack fires back.
"…What's that Asian kid got? One lucky punch?…"
"…Talent. Discipline. You know it—they're born warriors. We saw it in the camps, Foucault. They'll die for the goal. Victor's got that. And one thing your golden boy'll never have—heart…"
Argument drags nearly thirty minutes.
Old Jack steps out, looking wiped.
Victor hands him water. "My fault?"
"Nah. Old beef resurfacing. Foucault and I disagree on the gym's future."
He eyes Victor. "But yeah, it's about you. He thinks I'm wasting time on you, not Reggie."
Victor's quiet. "I can bounce. No trouble for you."
Old Jack cracks a grin. "Kid, know why I charged you that five hundred bucks?"
Victor shakes his head.
"Being broke lights a fire under anybody. Staying hungry when you're paid? Rare."
Slaps his shoulder. "Reggie's comfy. That ain't our plan. We need a rocket. You're it."
Taps his own chest.
"You got the heart, Victor Lee. So no—I ain't dropping you. Tomorrow? Training doubles. Be at Real Men's Gym by ten."
"Real Men's?"
Old Jack nods. "Mine."
A feeling Victor hasn't had in years swells—someone believes in me.
"Won't let you down, Coach."
Old Jack nods. "I know. Go home, rest. Tomorrow's hell. And keep your six-shooter close—Reggie ain't gone yet."