Three days later, the sticky, humid air packed the rooftop of the Chicago Elite Boxing Club like a wet towel.
Ceiling fans spun uselessly, churning sweat, blood, and cheap cigar smoke into a thick haze.
Victor sat on the locker-room bench, thick fingers wrapping his hands with slow, surgical precision. Every loop of cloth fit like it was custom-made.
Old Jack crouched in front of him, sandpaper-rough thumbs checking the wrap.
"That Irish kid's name is Sean O'Malley," he rasped, voice like gravel in a pipe. "Worked the docks eight years. Can dead-lift a 200-pound sack one-handed."
Victor nodded, kept wrapping the other hand.
His eyes never left his wrist—like the secrets of the universe were hidden there. And they kinda were. A pinch of lime powder packed inside the knuckle padding. Sweat would harden it mid-fight. Undetectable in pre-fight checks. Turned amateur punches into sledgehammers.
A burst of laughter and whistles exploded outside.
The thin door couldn't muffle the thick Irish accent: "Tell that orange cat to roll out! I'm sending him back home in a box!"
Old Jack caught Victor pause for half a second. That was it.
He spotted the white powder inside the wrap and lost it. "For an amateur fight? You gotta be kidding me!"
Victor nodded, then shook his head. "I'm not sweating the fight. But I need the payout to bankroll what comes next."
Old Jack pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket, took a swig. "He showboats. Right shoulder lifts half an inch before every punch—like the dock crane's warning beep."
Victor finally looked up. Obsidian eyes glinted under the dim bulb.
He took the flask, but only used the booze to clean the scabbed knuckles that hadn't healed yet.
The sting made his lip twitch—like a smile.
When they stepped into the tunnel, the spotlight hit Sean O'Malley—built like a fire hydrant, red hair, bronze skin laced with pale scars.
He flexed his "steel abs" for the crowd.
The second he saw Victor, he dragged a thumb across his throat, tongue lolling like a hooked cod.
"Look! The yellow monkey brought his trainer!"
He pointed at his chiseled gut. "Gonna let this fat seal tire himself out on these!"
Old Jack snorted. "Pretty abs. One shot in the right spot and his guts turn to spaghetti."
"Real armor's steel wrapped in sponge."
Victor climbed the ring in silence. Rubber mat groaned under his weight.
While the ref droned the rules, Sean shoulder-checked him. Victor smelled beer and onions.
"Heard you like gut punches?" Sean hissed, yellow teeth flashing. "When you're crying for mama, remember it's because you pissed off—"
The bell cut him off.
Ten seconds in, Sean proved the dock stories true.
His jab snapped like a cargo hook. Third one grazed Victor's brow—skin split. Blood rolled down his round cheek like a red pearl under the lights.
"Come on, orange cat!"
Sean slapped his abs, stance wide as a drunk's tie.
The Irish section roared.
Victor lunged—left swing feint to the head. Sean raised arms. Victor's right hook detonated into those prized abs.
Muffled thud. Sean staggered half a step, grinned like a demon.
"That all?"
He laughed. "My grandma hits harder than—"
Victor clocked the tiny shoulder twitch when Sean talked.
When the right haymaker came whistling, Victor slipped inside, wind ruffling his sweaty sideburns.
Old Jack's gravel voice cut through the noise: "Seventy-five degrees! Seventy-five!"
A minute later, Victor's white tank was soaked red and wet.
Sean turned bull—wide swings, trash talk with every punch, like words added damage.
1:03—Victor baited him. Left a hole.
Sean's right swing whooshed overhead.
Victor dropped low, heard the whoosh above his head.
In that split second, he saw it: the tiny dip under Sean's right ribs—where abs met rib cage. Armor's only seam.
Victor's right hook threaded the needle.
Not brute force—surgical.
Knuckles sank into soft tissue. Heard the huh of air punched from Sean's lungs.
Then left-right liver shots. Uppercut to the jaw.
Sean O'Malley dropped to his knees, face frozen between cocky and confused.
Lips moved—no words. Just foamy spit.
By the ref's eight-count, the crowd noticed the dark stain spreading on Sean's light shorts.
"Winner! Victor! Far East Fat Tiger!"
The ref raised Victor's arm. Dust danced in the lights. Nobody saw the look Victor gave his own fist—like a bomb tech staring at a disarmed device.
The crowd was stunned. Victor's punch power was insane.
---
Locker room. Old Jack pressed a whiskey-soaked cotton ball to Victor's brow.
"Sixth rib," he muttered. "You targeted the lower edge—liver projection."
"What's your point?"
"You don't need precision. You've got power. Just open the guard, finish clean. Doesn't matter if it's pretty."
"Another three hundred!" Michael counted cash in the corner. "Victor, we should call you the Kidney Collector."
Victor iced his swollen brow. Silent.
Foucault's warning echoed: "Amateur leagues don't like violent KO stats."
But South Side refs only cared if the crowd got their money's worth.
After Old Jack left, Victor stood, bagged the bloody wraps, and turned to Jason. "Three fights left. What's Frankie say? We setting up a dive?"
---
Sweat stung Victor's eyes as it rolled off his brow.
He blinked, didn't wipe it, just kept staring at the training chart on the wall.
Forty-five-pound dumbbells rose and fell in his grip like they were alive. Every curl made his biceps bulge like steel cable.
"Victor, you don't have to do this. Throwing a fight is low. Someone'll use it against you."
Frankie's voice came from the couch, edged with irritation.
The sharply dressed cousin picked his teeth with a toothpick, legs crossed, shiny shoes glinting.
Victor didn't answer right away.
He gritted his teeth, feeling muscle fibers tear and rebuild under the weight.
Fourth set. Last rep.
His arms shook, but his eyes stayed locked.
Sweat carved rivers down his chiseled abs, dripping pat-pat onto the gym floor.
"Third Uncle wants to build an undefeated Far East Tiger," Frankie went on, voice smooth but sharp. "Step into pro boxing—one or two fights, millions. Third Uncle doesn't do losing deals."
The dumbbells clanged back onto the rack. Echoed like a gunshot.
Victor grabbed the towel off the machine, wiped his face and neck.
His skin was pale—sickly. Muscles cut, but no pro glow.
"I respect Third Uncle's advice. But he doesn't know boxing."
Victor's voice was low, hoarse—like he hadn't drunk water in days. "I don't need undefeated. I need more than fifty grand."
Frankie frowned. Toothpick spun like a revolver. "Victor, keep it simple. I didn't go to school."
Victor walked to his bag, pulled two files, and slapped them on the coffee table in front of Frankie.
Paper slid across glass. Stopped at his hand.
Hospital logo. "SEVERE MALNUTRITION" circled in red. Looked like a wound.
"I need massive food—top quality. Plus two nutrition shakes a day. To fix this. I need cash."
He tapped another section. "Future millions aren't on my list. I want a fat payout now."
Frankie glanced at Michael—check if it's real.
Michael shot back: "Frankie, I'm not your errand boy. I'm not in the gang. I'm not helping."
Frankie fumed.
But Michael jumped up, grabbed the second report, and read.
His face darkened the more he read.
"Jesus. This isn't just malnutrition. What the hell's Old Joe doing? Using your fight money to feed us? Or are the fights eating too much protein? Report says your bones should be a third thicker."
Frankie skimmed it. Lip twitched. "Still doesn't need fifty grand…"
"You didn't go to school, so you don't get how bad this is."
Victor cut him off, chugged three cups of water at the cooler. "Frankie, I'm not Third Uncle's puppet. Even if you've got a brick phone on you, I know he's listening. Same words:
Third Uncle, we're partners. I'm not the one getting used."
The gym lights carved shadows on Victor's face. A fresh cut from the last fight—scabbed, but oozing after the workout.
Michael noticed, grabbed the med kit.
"Sit," Jason ordered. "Your cut's splitting."
Victor sat. Let Jason spray disinfectant.
The sting hit—muscles tensed. No sound.
Frankie watched, eyes flickering.
"You go against Third Uncle, he'll be pissed."
Toothpick snapped in half. "You know what happens."
Victor looked up. Black eyes locked on Frankie—but he wasn't talking to Frankie. "Third Uncle, I know your moves. But I also know—if the pro association sees my bloodwork, I don't get a license."
He tapped the report. "This isn't fixed with a few steaks. I need a nutritionist, physical therapist, and—"
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
Frankie shot up, suit wrinkling. "Third Uncle gave you a shot! Without him, you'd be selling your ass on the South Side!"
Air froze.
Jason's hand froze mid-spray. Bottle creaked.
Victor stood slow—half a head taller than Frankie.
Even run-down, he looked like a lion ready to pounce.
"I'm grateful for the shot."
Every word gritted. "But I'm not a puppet. I've got my own plan."
Frankie sneered. "Plan? What plan? Take that broken body to pro fights? You know your next opponent?"
"Don't need the setup. Don't need the name. Broke his nose last time—what's he gonna do?"
Victor turned to the heavy bag, started wrapping. "Third Uncle, we can make bank."
Frankie's face went purple. "You'll ruin everything! Media, branding—hell, even 'Far East Tiger' was Third Uncle's idea!"
Victor's fist thudded into the bag. "Third Uncle's making more."
"This isn't about money!"
Frankie roared. "It's trust! Loyalty!"
Jason finally spoke. "Frankie, chill. Victor's body is—"
"Shut it, Jason!"
Frankie spun. "Who are you? A third-rate fighter KO'd for two months! If Old Joe didn't like you, you wouldn't be here!"
Jason went white but didn't back down. "I'm not speaking at your funeral, Frankie."
Frankie laughed—chilling. "Good. Real good. Victor, you're so smart? Let's see how far you get without Third Uncle."
He straightened his suit, stormed to the door.
Slam. Echo lingered.
Jason collapsed onto the couch like the air got sucked out of him.
"You just started a war, Victor."
Rubbing his temples. "Third Uncle doesn't like defiance."
Victor kept pounding the bag. Every punch final. "I know."
"Then why—"
"But he really doesn't like losing money."
Sure enough—ten minutes later, Frankie kicked the door open, waving a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X like a weapon.
"Ballsy! I walk out and nobody stops me?"
He clocked Jason and Michael—one punch each—then shoved the brick phone at Victor. "Third Uncle wants you."
Victor took it. Third Uncle's voice crackled through:
"Victor, it's Fu San. Heard you've got a business pitch. Lay it out."
Victor gathered his words:
"Third Uncle, my body's messed up. Need big money for treatment. Plus Foucault Gym's contract means years of training before pro. Slow grind."
"You using Foucault to pressure me?"
"Never."
"I can loan you fifty grand. Plus fight bonuses—another fifty. Covers treatment. You know I've been good to you. We've got history."
"I'm grateful. But I'm eighteen. Adults don't live on handouts. My parents taught me that."
"You're filial. I like that. But we're family out here. we gotta stick together against the white devils."
"Boxing association won't license me with gang ties."
"That your real reason? So eager?"
"Just want the money."
"You're lying."
"It's the truth."
"No changing your mind?"
"Decision's made. But South Side will always have my back."
"You talk pretty. Let's talk business. Three fights left. You win them all?"
"One cracked ribs. One broken nose. One's 230 pounds. Don't know how to lose."
"You're not that malnourished."
"Already fixing it."
"You'll remember South Side?"
"For years. Already picked a house."
"Fine. Broken-nose guy's fight two. You throw it. You finish first overall. Fifty grand bonus. No betting."
"I'll play ball. Thanks, Third Uncle."
"Wishing you a bright future. If it all goes south—we're your last harbor."