The smoke from the auditions had cleared, leaving the gym thick with the stink of sweat and rust.
After three brutal rounds of cuts, the once-packed contestant zone was down to just twenty-two fighters. Every pair of eyes burned with its own color of fire—ambition, fear, or straight-up bloodlust.
Victor Lee sat on the bench, dragging a towel across his neck.
His 361-pound frame threw a heavy shadow under the lights, muscles carved like stone.
Fresh white wraps clung to his knuckles, already spotting with blood.
"Round two was tougher than I thought," he rumbled, voice low like a bass drum. "That Latino kid almost spun me dizzy with his butterfly step."
Jason Li—team intel guy and Victor's cousin—was hunched over a "report," frowning hard.
Typical Asian features, wiry build, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"You won. That's what matters," he said without looking up. "But I just dropped sixty bucks on some not-so-great news."
Victor got the hint. "Sixty bucks? I got you."
"Then I've got one good piece and one bad piece."
Jason loved a cliffhanger. Victor wasn't in the mood—he just wanted to crash at Veronica's and unwind.
"Spit it out."
"Bad news: our odds are down to 1:1.05. That ten grand we bet? Only brings in five hundred bucks profit."
Jason threw his hands up. "And that ten grand's under my brother Frankie's name."
Michael scratched his head, then floated a dumb idea: "So… what if Victor throws one?"
"Shut it," Jason snapped. "Everyone's following the bets now. Frankie says no more wagering—this is all club money we're making."
The real bad news: it meant Victor was dipping into savings to pay these two.
"Next opponent's Clark. Black dude, ex-military. Six-three, seventy-seven-inch reach, 225 pounds. Amateur boxer, 27-3, all wins by decision."
"War-of-attrition specialist," Michael spat. "The worst kind."
Victor stood. The bench groaned like it was begging for mercy.
He walked to the mirror, staring down his bronze reflection. "My weight's gonna be a problem."
"Everything's a problem with this guy!"
Michael stepped up beside him, tracing on the glass. "Clark's gonna buzz around you like a mosquito, wait till you gas out, then pick up points. We gotta flip the script. All three of his losses? KOs."
The three of them huddled around the tactic board. Jason pulled up Clark's fight footage.
On-screen, the Black fighter moved like liquid—every dodge measured to the inch, counters snapping out like a viper's tongue.
"Check this," Michael said, pausing the frame. "Every time he steps back, he drifts right first. Army fighting habit. Victor, your explosiveness is our ace."
Ten p.m.—gym was long closed, but they'd cashed in a favor with the janitor. Empty ring, just them drilling under flickering lights.
Victor watched the two spar.
"Again!"
Michael in pads, shifting stances. "Don't chase—let him walk into your range!"
Jason wheezing, lungs on fire.
"We've got the longer reach—that's our edge. We can trade bombs!"
By eleven, the plan locked in:
- First thirty seconds: full pressure, wreck Clark's rhythm.
- If no KO, second round: fake fatigue, lure him inside.
- Finish with a hook-fist barrage.
Next evening, the gym was packed and buzzing.
Victor stood in the red corner, catching scattered boos from the crowd—nobody thought the big Asian dude could out-technique a slick vet.
Which meant Victor could bet on himself. He put up half his savings—ten grand.
Bell rang.
Victor charged like a caged bull, left shoulder dipped, right fist coiled.
Clark slid right on cue, calm as a sniper sizing up a target.
Halfway through round one, Victor's nose nearly exploded.
Clark's jab kissed the same spot three times—textbook poison. Lucky for Victor, the guy wouldn't trade.
Every haymaker Victor threw sliced nothing but air. Couldn't touch a hair.
Damn eel, Victor cursed inside. He tried body-slamming to force a slugfest, but Clark ghosted out of blind spots, whispering, "Slow as a three-legged pig!"
"Hold steady!" Jason roared from ringside, voice cutting through the noise. "Plan B!"
Clark probably wondered what the hell "Plan B" was.
There was no Plan B.
Victor suddenly stopped chasing, planted his feet, and heaved for air, fists dropping an inch.
Clark caught it instantly. Shark smelling blood. He shortened the gap, cautious but hungry.
When Victor "slipped" on sweat and stumbled, Clark bit—textbook right straight screaming for Victor's face, wind whistling.
"Now!"
Jason shot up, knocking over his Coke.
Victor was ready. Knees coiled like springs, whole body dropping six inches. Clark's punch skimmed his hair.
At the same instant, Victor poured everything into a left hook, ripping from a nasty angle into Clark's right ribs.
BOOM.
The thud rippled through the canvas.
Crowd gasped. Clark's face twisted—first crack in the armor. Tactic worked.
In the ref's ten-count, Victor spotted a peach-sized bruise blooming on the ribs.
Bell saved Clark.
Back in the corner, Michael slapped an ice pack on Victor's brow. "His sixth right rib broke last year—gotta be cracked now. Round two, pin him on the ropes, then—"
"End it."
Victor spat blood—gum split on the duck.
Round two bell.
Victor came out swinging—no holding back.
He bulldozed forward like a runaway train, using his bulk to shrink the ring.
Clark's footwork slowed. Cool eyes flickered with panic. Every breath made him wince—Michael was right, rib was screaming.
1:47 in, Victor finally trapped Clark in the blue corner.
Clark threw up classic peek-a-boo, but Victor's hooks rained—left gut, right gut, left ribs, right ribs—hammering the same nail over and over.
The second Clark's guard cracked, Victor sold a fake, slipped an uppercut through, and buried it in the liver.
Glove sank into muscle like punching wet sand.
Liver shot.
The blast folded Clark's stomach, blasted air from his lungs, starved his brain of oxygen before the pain even hit.
Clark's eyes bugged, pupils blown wide.
Knees buckled like someone yanked the bones out. He dropped to a knee in front of Victor, puking bile and blood across the gloves.
"…Nine! Ten! Fight's over!"
Victor stood center-ring, arms shaking in the air.
The crowd lost it—an impossible upset. 361 pounds of monster just out-scienced a technician, all thanks to sixty bucks of intel and a perfect game plan.
Jason vaulted the ropes, hugging Victor, whispering, "Next opponent's file?"
Victor watched Clark get helped out, wiped blood from his brow, and grinned. "Go get it. You do your thing—I trust you. Ten percent bonus on me."