The evening sun was fading, but the car headlights blinded like spotlights. Victor squinted, shoved open the rusty iron door—metal hinges screaming like they hadn't been oiled since the '80s.
Two steps in, he froze. Ten yards down the alley, a dark blue Chevy Impala blocked the way. Windows half-down. Familiar faces.
Reggie's swollen mug poked out the passenger side, dried blood crusting his lip.
His eyes lit up when he spotted Victor—like a vulture smelling roadkill.
Two Black dudes in the back—muscles straining their T-shirts. One unbuckled, ready to hop out.
"That's it?"
Victor muttered, right hand already on the S&W M&P 340 at his waist. The .38 he'd bought off Carl—walnut grip polished smooth from use.
Click. Metal echoed loud in the quiet alley.
Victor raised the revolver steady with his right, left hand fishing six rounds from his pocket. Lined them up in his palm.
Brass gleamed in the light—like tiny warning flares.
"If I were you," Victor said, voice colder than a Chicago January, "I wouldn't test my aim."
Thumb hit the cylinder release. It swung left. Six spent shells clinked to the ground.
He'd practiced this reload a thousand times—could do it blindfolded in three seconds. Accuracy? Point and shoot. Speed wins.
One by one, fresh rounds slid in—tick-tick-tick—like a countdown.
The Impala's engine roared.
A guy in the back with a gold chain cracked the door—saw the reload, slammed it shut.
"Freakin' psycho!"
Reggie's curse got trapped as the window rolled up.
Tires screeched. Black marks on the pavement. The Chevy bolted like a spooked stallion.
Victor didn't move.
Click. Cylinder locked. Gun stayed up.
Dogs barked down the block. Sirens wailed—close, then far.
Five minutes later, an unmarked black Dodge Charger rolled up slow.
"Get in."
Jason leaned out the driver's side, sunglasses reflecting Victor's gun.
Michael in the passenger seat fiddled with a Nikon F3—long lens sticking out like a cannon.
Victor slid into the back. Smelled faint gunpowder.
"Sirens were fake. They didn't go far."
He rolled down the window. Sure enough—200 yards away, the Impala sat outside a convenience store.
As the Charger cruised past, Reggie was yelling into a phone. Spotted them—lunged at the glass.
Victor flipped him the bird slow, lips curling into a dead smile.
"Motherfu—piece of shit!"
Reggie's roar faded behind.
Michael clicked the shutter—motor drive snap-snap-snap.
"Get his face?"
Victor asked, eyes on the shrinking figure in the rearview.
Michael checked the film counter. "Crystal. Even the pimples. Mark's family gear don't play."
He turned to Jason. "Right at the next corner. Dodge the cameras."
Twenty minutes later, they pushed through the oak doors of Alibi Bar.
Evening crowd packed the place. Veronica's low-cut top was working overtime. Kevin wiped glasses behind the bar, grinned when he saw them:
"Three specials. Pitcher of Bud, ice-cold."
Victor paid up. Their corner table—back to the load-bearing pillar—was always open. Best view. Wall behind. Five steps to the back door.
South Side rule: pay first, eat later.
Jason pulled the film roll from the camera, stuffed it in a brown paper bag, scribbled the date.
"Fifty bucks," he muttered to Michael. "Week tops—I'll have Mark's drama all over the South Side. Even paid cable. We cash in."
"Good deal!"
Michael beamed. Veronica brought the beers—frost on the mugs. Overheard: "Boys, invading a woman's privacy ain't cool."
Jason tipped her a buck. "She ain't you, V. Just a chick spreading legs for cash. Law don't protect her job. She don't pay taxes. Law don't protect her."
"Hmph!"
Veronica snarled. "No gang crap in my bar."
Victor slid her a ten. "Miss V, we're starving."
Her smile flipped on like a switch. "Coming right up. For Franklin's sake, keep it light."
Once she left, Victor chugged half his beer. "I want Reggie's address. His routine."
Jason stabbed bread with a fork. "No need to complicate. Five hundred—we break his legs. Mickey's cheap and pro."
He nodded toward the kitchen. "He's down bad, but reliable."
"Can't outsource this."
Victor's knuckles drummed the table—dull thuds. "Don't trust anyone. Gets out later? Trouble."
Michael dumped sugar in his food. "Got it. One week. Hundred bucks."
"Done."
Victor pulled a rubber-banded roll from his inner pocket, slid over two bills.
Veronica brought stew—beef simmering, rosemary and pepper thick in the air. Brushed past Victor's neck, dropped a note in his lap.
He pocketed it, stone-faced.
Jason sliced his steak—pink juice bled out. "What's the play?"
Victor's knife scraped the plate.
He looked up. Dark brown eyes—something in them made Michael sit straighter.
"We do it. All three of us. When the time's right."
---
Later that night, Kevin was still at the bar. Veronica went home to the kids. Victor knocked on the back door. Stayed an hour. Left satisfied.
Veronica, still buzzing: "Fiona wasn't kidding—one thrust straight to the gut!"
Victor dragged his tired ass back to the top-floor apartment. Moonlight spilled through cracked windows onto dusty floors.
Wallpaper peeled like old skin. Couch chewed to hell by rats.
He tossed his sweat-soaked gym bag in the corner—cockroaches scattered.
Cold shower. Collapsed on the creaky metal bedframe.
Neon bled through curtainless windows, painting shifting colors across his scarred chest.
He stared at ceiling mold, wondering how long this life could last—until heavy lids finally closed.
2:30 a.m.—body clock woke him like clockwork.
Bed groaned as he rolled out.
Faded training gear. Tied his shoes—left sole split again. This weight murdered footwear.
Shoes are expensive, he thought. Hit Mickey up.
Up on the roof, morning wind carried the city's underbelly—grease, smoke, despair.
Two hours of brutal endurance: slow walks, jogs. Sweat soaked his tank, steamed in the dawn.
Downstairs neighbor worked nights—still out.
But Victor noticed something: he gassed fast. Drenched. Legs jelly. Even the "Everest Spear" that used to last all night? Now thirty minutes tops.
Construction logic: just grind through it.
His boxing edge? Fat armor. 400 pounds of punch power. Enough to stand.
Breakfast done, he stood under Old Jack's Real Men's Gym sign—faded paint on a converted garage.
Place reeked of motor oil, rust, and testosterone.
Jack yanked up the roll-up door. Gravel voice over clanging plates: "Little bastard—thirty seconds late! Ten seconds is all I need to make another you!"
Inside: pure '80s. Faded fight posters. Dumbbell racks welded from car parts.
Old Jack—Korean War POW, brain rewired, no deep racism left—saw potential in kid. Was tightening squat rack bolts with a wrench.
"Devil plan starts today."
He spat out a cigar stub. "Six months—I turn that blubber into armor."
Victor grinned. "Count on it."
Jack lit another cigar. "Today's free. After you win the South Side Badass Tourney? Six months with me. Two grand. Full obedience."
Victor didn't commit. Jack was already strapping him in.
Training kicked off with nightmare "death squats."
"I say match your body weight."
Victor winced. "Tendons'll snap."
Jack nodded. "True. You live weighted every day."
361 pounds on Victor's back—100-kilo bar. Five reps. One-minute rest. Jack added 10 kilos every set. Up to 200.
Quads shook like overloaded engines.
Jack timed with a stopwatch. Any form break? Wrench smacked the muscle.
"Core tight!"
Whack on the gut. "You pregnant or what?"
Victor grunted. "Nah. Just full of shit."
"You're disgusting!"
Jack roared. "Don't use yesterday's Reggie trash talk on me—that's nasty!"
"Got it."
"Your gut all oil?"
"Hope not. Or the Army's spawning in there."
"I love you, you damn fatass!"
Lunch: Jack tossed a lunchbox with a glove logo.
Grams-perfect: chicken breast, brown rice, broccoli. Two scoops of metallic-tasting protein.
"Let me school you on going pro."
Jack laid it out—stuff Victor already knew:
"Six months ain't random. It's the minimum to turn pro. Right now? You're amateur. Not enough miles.
"First: join a legit boxing club. Not gym classes—real camp under a national org. They check coach credentials—past pros trained, fights managed. Fuko's gym is washed up, but the pedigree's there.
"Second: system training. Master basics—jab, cross, hooks, uppercuts, defense. Build stamina, power, speed, reflexes. Jump rope, heavy bag, roadwork. Spar hard. Adapt to fights. I got you.
"Last: apply for a pro license. State athletic commission or USA Boxing. Submit medicals—EEG, EKG, CAT scan. Prove health. No KO or TKO in past six months.
"That's why—six months."