South Side Chicago, September wind cutting like a switchblade, slowly bleeding the heat out of the streets.
Victor zipped his bomber jacket tighter and shoved through the glass door of Foucault's Gym.
The bell jingled sharp, mixing with the thump-thump of gloves on heavy bags and the sour tang of sweat.
"Contract signed?"
Foucault poked his head out of the office, unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. The ex-middleweight champ ran the gym now, eyes still hawk-sharp.
Those eyes carried doubt—gut instinct told him Victor had something to do with the last star, Reggie, landing in the pen.
Especially since Reggie's child support and bank bills had cleaned him out. Dude couldn't even scrape bail.
Victor nodded, pulled a stack of papers from his jacket pocket. "Lawyer checked it. Clean."
His knuckles still purple from yesterday's war.
Old Jack ambled over from the bags, squinting. "Kid, you sure you're ditching the underground gigs? Foucault don't let his fighters moonlight."
"I didn't say I'm quitting."
Victor slapped the contract on the desk, knuckles drumming the paper. "Five fights left in the South Side Badass tourney. Wrap those, then training camp starts."
Foucault grunted, spread the pages, eyeballing the signatures. "Six months. I wanna see you go twelve rounds without gassing. Six months from now, I want you in the Chicago Golden Gloves trials knocking trust-fund jaws into next week."
He jabbed the cigar at the wall calendar—March 1985 circled in red.
Through the office window, young fighters paused mid-set, sneaking looks.
Victor knew the vibe—another golden boy Foucault's betting on.
Luck never had shit to do with him. laborer's kid, dockworker's orphan—everything he had, he'd punched out with his own fists.
"Regionals in April, nationals in May."
Old Jack cracked his gnarled knuckles, counting. "Make finals, you're in pro territory!"
"I will."
Victor cut him off, staring at a yellowed newspaper in Foucault's office—1946 Golden Gloves national champ photo.
Young Foucault hoisting the gold belt, grin blinding.
Foucault followed his gaze, lips twitching up. "Beat Chicago trials first. This district ain't no joke."
He yanked open a drawer, tossed Victor a key. "Your ride, your program, your trainer—Old Jack. All yours. Six months, I want the Far East Tiger in my ring!"
That night, Victor got back to his shoebox apartment on the South Side fringe. Jason and Michael were already camped at the door.
Michael dangled a bottle of cheap whiskey. Jason waved a crumpled betting slip like a winning lottery ticket.
"Look what we scored!"
Jason smacked it against Victor's chest. "Next fight—you versus that Canadian lumberjack. Odds 1.3 to 1!"
Victor unfolded it: Victor "Far East Fat Tiger" Lee vs. Jean-Claude Beaudoin.
He snorted. That Quebec beast had hospitalized a guy last week—270 pounds of pure lumberjack muscle.
"You betting on me again?"
Victor unlocked the door. The cramped room overflowed with boxing mags and gear. "Put me down too!"
Michael followed, grabbing three glasses from the cabinet like he owned the place. "Victor, ever since you unlocked that 'liver shot' trick, we're making more than you did in three months at the steel mill."
Victor shrugged off his jacket, red tiger tattoo flashing above his tank top.
He rolled his shoulders—left scapula throbbed, souvenir from the Irishman.
"Amateur rules ain't pro," he said, pouring whiskey. Amber sloshed in the glasses. "Everyone's got headgear. Even headshots barely register. Refs stop everything."
Jason grinned, missing front tooth shining. "Exactly why nobody guards the body! They're all protecting their pretty faces."
Victor sipped the rotgut—throat on fire.
He remembered that college pretty-boy, shiny red gear, strutting like a rooster.
Kid never saw the right hook slipping under the rib guard into his liver.
Dropped to his knees, puking like a beached fish.
"What'd Foucault say?" Michael asked. "About going amateur straight-up?"
Victor shrugged, sliding his cut into jacket pockets like armor plates—only Franklins stop bullets in the land of the free.
"Our 'side hustle' might pause. He's got me in a six-month locked-down camp."
Jason didn't flinch at no bets, no cash—just pumped.
"Foucault's grooming you as the gym's cash cow! Victor! You're about to blow up!"
Victor slammed the whiskey, pulled three steaks and potatoes from the fridge, tossed them in a pot.
"Don't know what's coming. Body this big—I either dominate before my bones and tendons snap, or I fade into nothing. But I'm betting on me."
Michael lifted his chin. "We got your back. Old Joe sent us to ride with you—get us outta the South Side. Frankie's done. He's dying here one day."
Jason leaned in. "We got a plan. Old Joe's on board. I'm studying fight tactics and film breakdown. Michael's hitting nutrition and recovery massage. Old Joe's covering basics. Six months, we're your crew!"
Victor raised his glass. "Appreciate it."
…
Three days later, abandoned warehouse basement, South Side. Sweat, blood, and crowd screams thick as fog.
Victor stood in his corner of the pop-up ring, Old Jack barking last-minute orders—post-contract, Foucault sent Jack as coach and a doc for checkups.
"That Canuck's left hook's a killer, but his guard's got holes."
Jack shoved a mouthguard in. "Your plan: attack! Burn your gas in the first two rounds and flatten him! Otherwise he'll point-fight you to death!"
Victor nodded, eyes cutting through the ropes.
Jean-Claude Beaudoin pounded his chest like a grizzly. His coach slathered Vaseline on that hairy gut.
Victor clocked the oversized rib guard—someone had warned him.
Bell dinged.
Round one: feeling-out dance.
Victor didn't charge like usual. He traced a "king" symbol over his chest, then lunged—speed wild for his size.
Beaudoin's ice-blue eyes stayed calm under blond hair. Jabs snapped like viper strikes, perfectly measured outside Victor's reach.
Each pop-pop on Victor's gloves like a ruler smacking a desk.
"Don't let him pin you! Move!"
Old Jack roared, drowned by the crowd.
Victor exploded forward—left hook arcing for the ribs.
Canuck slid back half a step, left hook whistling past Victor's temple.
Headgear ate most of it, but Victor's right ear rang like church bells.
World blurred. Instinctively clinched his guard—two more jabs stabbed his forearms like needles.
Sweat stung his eyes. Blink.
That split-second—Beaudoin's right straight crashed through, smashing Victor's face.
Blood in his mouth. Lip or nose? Didn't matter.
He spat red, blooming dark on the canvas.
"ATTACK! Don't let him box you!"
Old Jack's voice cut through the fog like a blade.
Victor dropped low—tree-trunk legs exploded. Body shot like a battering ram into Beaudoin's right side.
Canuck grunted, elbow blocking follow-ups.
Victor pressed, but Beaudoin reset distance—blue eyes flashing caution.
He's ready.
Round bell saved Victor—Beaudoin had just found his rhythm, jabs slicing like switchblades.
Victor collapsed on the stool, gasping. Sweat gleamed like oil under the lights.
361 pounds felt like dragging an anvil. Every breath rattled like a busted bellows.
"Explosive power! Corner him!" Old Jack splashed water, slapped an ice pack on Victor's neck. "He's guarding the right liver. But left spleen's wide open. See? Every time you feint right, his left elbow lifts."
Victor wiped his face with a towel, spat bloody foam. "Got it."
"Round two—sell the right-side attack, then switch low to the left ribs."
Jack stuffed more gauze in Victor's gloves. "One clean shot. Land it, he slows."
Bell.
Victor stood—knees popped. Undernourished bones screaming for fuel.
He locked eyes with Beaudoin. Canuck kept glancing at his own right side—Old Jack's eyes were lethal.
Thirty seconds in, Victor dipped his right shoulder hard.
Beaudoin bit—right elbow up, guarding liver.
Instant. Victor's right hook slithered under the lifted elbow, buried below the left ribs.
Victor knew the feeling—fist sinking into soft tissue, opponent freezing for one heartbeat.
Like a spear in a buffalo's heart. That life-pause vibrated up his arm.
Beaudoin's face went ghost-white, lips twisting in agony.
He folded instinctively, arms flaring like a crucified man.
Victor didn't wait—uppercut ripped upward through the open guard, crashing into the chin.
BANG!
Mouthguard and blood spray flew, pink arc under the lights.
Beaudoin timbered like a felled oak—blond hair fanning across the canvas like a wilted sunflower.
Ref jumped in, counting.
Victor backed to neutral corner, chest heaving.
Beaudoin's eyes swam. Hands pawed the mat for his guard, blind man hunting keys.
At eight, Canuck pushed up on shaky knees—then collapsed.
"…Nine! Ten!"
Bell clanged.
Ref grabbed Victor's wrist, hoisted it high.
Crowd exploded—cheers and curses. Plenty had bet on the lumberjack.
Victor looked down at the kneeling Canuck. Blue eyes refocused—resentment, then surrender.
Victor offered a hand, pulled him up.
"Good punch."
Beaudoin mumbled, jaw swollen like he'd swallowed an egg.
Victor just nodded. No victory platitudes.
He knew how much luck was in that shot.
"Hell yes!"
Jason leaped ringside, waving tickets. "I knew it!"
Victor ignored the noise, eyes on Beaudoin curled in his corner, coach icing his side.
Victor knew that pain—liver shot turned the toughest bastard into a crying baby.
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