Victor Lee stood in the center of the South Side Badass Boxing ring, sweat rolling off his brow, catching the spotlight like liquid steel.
The crowd's roar crashed over him like a wave, but all he heard was his own steady breathing—and his opponent's panicked gasps.
The hospital orderly-turned-fighter was slumped in the corner, left eye swollen shut. Victor's knuckles were just starting to pink up.
"Next."
Victor said it quiet, but the mic caught it—whole gym heard.
Two days of boos and curses later, the next guy showed up.
Dockworker. Tougher than the last. Fists like steel ingots. But Victor's greased-up blubber was worse than armor—mosquitoes would slip and split trying to land.
Third time the guy threw his signature left hook, Victor sidestepped like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times. Right hand snaked in, buried deep in the liver.
Dockworker dropped to his knees, face twisted in confusion—like he couldn't believe his money punch just flopped against this Asian kid.
Worst part? Victor's punches looked sloppy, like swinging a sledgehammer blind. But 350+ pounds behind every swing? One hit and you're done.
Victor didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his corner. Breathing hard—too hard. Not used to burning out this fast. Maybe see a real doctor.
On the ten-man round-robin leaderboard, his name sat third—three fights, three wins. Only two others matched him.
But the real fight, he thought, never happened in the ring.
---
Tuesday, 9:15 a.m.
Frank Gallagher showed up outside Reggie Thomas's apartment building—right on the dot.
Victor watched from across the street, sipping coffee behind a newspaper.
Three days ago: a letter made of cut-out magazine words and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Doing exactly what it was meant to.
"Your girl was in my bed last night—didn't sound like she missed your sorry ass!"
"Your kid was right next door, humming while I—"
Frank bellowed it loud enough for the whole block, hitting every sore spot the letter told him to.
Reggie burst out the door 1.7 seconds faster than Victor calculated.
What followed was art—Reggie's fists landing exactly where they'd hurt but not kill: cheek, nose, ribs.
Fifteen seconds in, sirens.
Frank had called it in.
Cops found the heroin in Reggie's nightstand—fresh buy, less than eight hours old. Frank's chaos had thrown off the stash plan.
"You can't do this! I got qualifiers next week!"
Reggie screamed into the pavement as cuffs clicked. "This is a mistake! I didn't know what it was—I thought it was salt!"
Detective Watson jabbed him in the gut with a baton—shut the rest right up.
Frank played his part perfect: shock, fear, then—boom—passed out cold.
Watson saw the cue, grabbed the radio: "Black male assault, white male unconscious…"
---
Victor finished his coffee, left a fat tip.
Show's over. Time to collect.
Word hit FoCo Gym while Victor was benching in True Man Fitness's power cage.
Old Jack took a call, glanced at Victor, and bounced.
He walked into FoCo and heard glass shatter in Coach FoCo's office—then three minutes of dead silence.
When Old Jack pushed through the gym doors, every fighter froze mid-rep.
"Reggie's locked up."
Old Jack's voice was funeral-flat. "Drug charges plus aggravated assault."
Place exploded.
Some cursed the system. Some mourned Reggie. Most worried what it meant for the gym.
"Get your asses back to work!"
FoCo appeared on the second-floor railing, eyes bloodshot, half a bottle of whiskey in hand. "FoCo Gym ain't shutting down 'cause one dumbass went to jail!"
But everyone knew.
Reggie was FoCo's golden boy—three years pushing him as the next big thing in cruiserweight. Now, with qualifiers closing in, only one name left.
That night, 10 p.m., shouting leaked through the thin office walls.
"You think I'm blind?"
FoCo's roar rattled the heavy bags downstairs. "Frank Gallagher? That drunk who can't tie his shoes suddenly picks a fight with Reggie? Since when does Watson raid a boxer's apartment?"
Old Jack's voice was low, steady—each word a hammer on steel: "Point is, Reggie had the drugs. He already rolled on his dealer. Evidence is airtight. And he put a white guy in the hospital. He's done."
"It was Victor."
FoCo's voice cracked—exhausted. "That little bastard's been planning this since day one. Always gunning for Reggie's spot."
"So what?"
Old Jack's comeback froze the air. "He's the only one we've got left for pro league. He's got value. Strength. Talent. Chicago Boxing Club asked about him last week. We don't lock him in—"
A bottle smashed against the wall.
Victor counted to seventeen downstairs, then heard FoCo choke out: "I raised Reggie for three years, Jack… three years…"
"You and him weren't—"
"Emotion? Screw emotion—I dropped thirty grand on that kid! Who's paying me back? He gonna have cash when he gets out?"
FoCo raged.
Victor slipped downstairs, crossed the empty training floor, and headed home.
Moonlight poured through the skylight, stretching his shadow across the ring.
He wrapped his hands, threw combos at the air—every punch surgical, every ounce of power dialed in.
---
Dawn broke. First light hit the gym.
FoCo stood ringside, watching Victor go through his third ten-round spar.
Choice made.
Victor Lee in the center—361 pounds of moving meat mountain under the lights, sweat shining off layers of fat.
260-pound opponent—"Hammer" Thompson—circled the edge. Guy's hooks had put two fighters in the hospital.
Bell rang.
Thompson shot in like a cheetah—left hook cracked Victor's cheek.
BOOM.
Crowd gasped.
Victor's blubber rippled like a wave, triple chin jiggled—he grinned around his mouthpiece.
"My turn, baby."
Voice like gravel.
Then—meat missile. Victor closed the gap with speed that shouldn't exist at his size. Three combos, left-right hooks, each one slamming into Thompson's guard.
No fancy footwork. Just 350+ pounds of force turning punches into freight trains.
Thompson rocked side to side, guard cracking.
Second right hook to the liver—Thompson's face went ghost-white. Medical report later: 1.2-inch rib fracture.
Third punch—an uppercut from hell. All 361 pounds funneled into one shot, hidden in a "sloppy" swing.
Thompson's jaw crunched. 190 pounds of upper body snapped back 45 degrees. Back of his head dented the canvas before he landed.
Medics hit five—pupils blown. No light response.
Ringside announcer screamed into the mic: "Jesus Christ! This ain't boxing—this is a semi truck running over a Prius!"
Victor wiped sweat with the ref's tie. Not a mark on his fat armor.
He raised both fists—victory.
Real victory.
Ten-man round-robin: nine fights total. Victor now 3-0. The other two 3-0 guys? Lost their third fights.
They didn't have his blubber shield. Didn't recover like he did. Stacked fatigue broke them.
This guy? Former amateur seed.
Locker room—Old Jack walked in with FoCo.
FoCo looked like death: bags under his eyes, reeking of last night's binge. But he carried a thick stack of training plans Victor had never seen.
"Victor," FoCo croaked, voice like gravel in a tomb. "Starting today—if you're in—FoCo Gym goes all-in on you."
He locked eyes. "Talked to Jack. Two extra hours conditioning daily. Weekend sparring. Jack rewrites your diet, sleep—everything."
"I want you to win so big, nobody remembers Reggie Thomas ever existed."
Victor took the plan—no signature.
"I need time to think."
Old Jack watched the whole thing.
After FoCo stumbled back to his office, the old man stepped up to Victor, who was wrapping fresh tape.
"Why?"
Jack's voice was low—just for them. "You came here for FoCo's machine. Now you're stalling?"
"'Cause you love winners," Victor said, not looking up. "And I do too. But I want to win bigger."
"I've seen more than you."
Old Jack pulled a faded photo from his pocket—young him with a Black fighter. "Street games don't last."
Victor paused 0.3 seconds—then kept wrapping.
"You got me wrong."
"Maybe."
Old Jack tucked the photo away. "But listen, kid—FoCo's desperate. You lose value? You're done."
He dragged a finger across his throat.
Victor finally looked up—first real smile since walking in the gym.
"Before that happens, I'll be the greatest fighter he ever trained."
He'd already decided: Steel Bones would crank his power even higher. What's left to fear?
King of the world? Why not him?
"Just need a lawyer to look over the contract."