At the hospital, Victor used his insurance to get a full work-up. The results came back the same:
"Victor is in a state of malnutrition."
No surprise there—his bones were still growing. Of course he was malnourished.
And it'd stay that way for a while: "Months at best, years at worst. Your skeleton will finish hardening."
Alone in the exam room, Victor heard the system's voice echo again:
"Steel-reinforced bones?"
Was this a gift or some weird mutation he hadn't figured out yet? Didn't matter. He was all in now. Even if the payoff was half-assed, it was the only play he had.
Victor clutched the diagnosis sheet and decided to roll the dice.
---
Victor Lee's second-round win was a springboard that launched him straight into the spotlight.
The next two fights? Lady Luck must've had a crush on the Asian kid. No more monsters like "Siberian Bear" Ivanov or "Iron Hammer" Johnson who could punch through his fat like it was butter.
Most opponents just bounced off his gut, got too close, and ate a combo until they hit the canvas.
In the third round, he faced a cop-boxer from Detroit. Second round, Victor dropped him with a nothing-special right hook. KO. Front-row fans swore the cop took a dive—cops in Chicago taking bribes wasn't exactly shocking. But cracked ribs don't lie.
Fourth round: Carlos Mendoza, a Mexican fighter tough as a cactus. He hung in there, but under Victor's storm of punches, the ref stopped it in the third. Blood splattered the ref's striped shirt. Mendoza swung wild at nothing. TKO. No debate.
The wins piled up like bodies in a gangster flick. Victor Lee's name spread through the South Side like wildfire.
The Chicago Boxing Weekly ran a full-page spread on the rising star. Headline: FAR EAST TIGER. Under it, a high-speed photo of his punch—sweat flying off his glove like diamond dust under the lights.
On the late-night sports radio show Midnight Fight Talk, the host did Victor's signature fat-guy shuffle and dubbed him "The Chinatown Destroyer." Next day, it was glowing in neon over a South Side bar.
Even weirder: the sports shop across from Old Jack's gym dropped limited-edition red training gloves with "Victor Lee" stamped in gold. Sold out in hours.
Victor was confused. When did he sign off on merch?
Before he could ask, the gang sent over his cut—17% of the take.
Seventeen hundred bucks. Frankie puffed a cheap cigar, grinning like a jackass. "Victor, you're our golden goose for laundering cash now! Just say the word—we got you."
Victor didn't say no. No point. Jade Dragon had already scared off the other gangs sniffing around.
---
When Victor stormed into the top ten, Chicago Boxing Alliance scouts started popping up at his fights like ghosts.
Vice Chairman Marcus—always in a custom three-piece suit, Southern gentleman vibe—pushed through the cheering crowd after one match and slipped a gold-embossed business card into Victor's sweaty glove.
"Young man, that's my private number."
He leaned in, voice low, eyes flicking toward the door where Foucault stood stone-faced.
Word spread like gasoline on a fire. Foucault and Old Jack paced the gym office like caged animals.
"Damn it! They smell blood!" Old Jack growled, stomping around the room littered with boxing mags. His Cuban cigar was getting crushed in his fist, ash raining on the faded Persian rug. "Marcus is a pro at poaching with limos and blank checks."
Foucault silently polished Victor's custom gloves, rough fingers tracing the cracks in the leather.
"Marcus offered him a spot in the Chicago Golden Gloves," Foucault said. "Full resources. You know what that means—one of the oldest amateur tournaments in the country. Winners go to nationals. We already gave our slot to Reggie."
The digital clock on the wall blinked 6:00 p.m., but he could still hear the thump-thump of the heavy bag downstairs. Victor, grinding extra rounds.
That sound made Foucault's frown deeper. He knew—if the big league signed Victor, their peeling-paint little club would lose the kid rewriting Chicago boxing history.
Worse: the contract on the desk had 89 days left. Ticking like a bomb.
"That kid knows what's up," Foucault finally said, voice like gravel in a pipe.
He stared out the window. Victor's silhouette danced with the double-end bag, each jab cutting silver trails through the fog.
"But Old Jack…" He crushed his beer can. "Tell me—what does he really want?"
"What does he want?" Old Jack threw his hands up. "Foucault, why lie to yourself? He wants fairness. He wants to be Foucault Gym's number one.
He wants to stand in the sun."
Foucault wrestled with it.
---
Meanwhile, Victor was drowning in flashbulbs and temptations.
One rainy evening after training, he spotted a black Mercedes S600 parked outside the gym. Rain slid down the paint like liquid metal.
As he trudged over, exhausted, the bulletproof window rolled down. Revealed Ray Cortez, the Alliance's top scout—Brazilian, iron-fisted, face sliced by neon.
"Heard you like Soviet steel?"
He handed over two gold-embossed tickets to the Berlin Philharmonic. Piano keys glinted in the dusk. "Next week. My box has an empty seat for someone with taste."
On the leather seat: a contract folder with the Alliance logo stitched in gold thread. Glowing under the streetlight.
Victor thanked him but passed. "My coach is Old Jack."
"That your final answer?"
"Until Old Jack tells me to leave, yeah. That's official."
Ray went quiet, then smiled wide. "I'm sorry to hear it, but I respect the hell out of your loyalty. Looking forward to round two."
Victor nodded. "If I ever need a home, hope you'll take me."
---
Victor tracked down Michael and Jason.
"We're moving forward."
"Reggie?"
"Yup."
"How? The Alliance comes down hard on anyone touching amateur cash cows."
"Legal. Clean."
"Reggie's down at least six grand. His credit cards are maxed."
"Bank's a good start."
"But he'll find money."
"Make the hole bigger."
"How?"
"He's got a kid on the side. The mom's dumb. Needs a teacher."
"I've got the perfect guy."
"Who?"
"Frank Gallagher. He loves single moms with steady paychecks."
"Perfect."
"Do it. Michael—his bag's got white powder. Chicago PD doesn't know yet.
Jason—find a 'volunteer.' Keep Reggie happy."
Michael and Jason nodded and split.
Victor checked his list, then walked into the Alibi Bar—yep, there was Frank, the regular drunk, holding court at the end of the bar.