`Victor could feel his stomach eating itself.
Twenty-seven hours without food. The hunger was a dull blade, and his hyper-absorption had already cleaned out his guts. Stomach acid was now slowly carving up his insides.
In the locker-room mirror, his rolls of fat stood out under pale skin like piano keys on a showroom floor—ugly as hell.
"You sure about this?"
Kevin leaned in the doorway, worry thick in his voice. "We can make an excuse. You don't have to do this. I'm scared those people out there are gonna tear you apart. Americans who lose money are meaner than Americans with a cheating spouse."
Victor shook his head, wrapping his right hand tight with tape.
"It's the only shot. In front of the alderman, with FoCo backing me—I get a real chance to slip the gangs' leash."
He forced a grin, but it drained the last of his juice. "Besides, you know how cocky South Side gangs are."
No denying that.
Power doesn't vanish—it just changes hands. Chicago's city hall was useless, so the mobs picked up the slack.
Outside the locker room, the crowd noise rolled in like a tsunami.
Chicago Elite Boxing Club—two thousand seats, sold out. Three gangs' betting pools topped three million bucks. Hottest fight in the city this month.
Victor —361 pounds, 19-0, the Far East Tiger—versus Hanson Chen, Green Dragon Society's double-red-pole enforcer.
"At least eat this."
Ian tossed him a chocolate bar. Victor's fingers shook catching it.
He inhaled it. Sweetness hit like a memory—last real meal was thirty hours ago: a bowl of cold bean soup.
Walking to the ring, spotlights stabbed his eyes black.
In the crowd he clocked familiar faces:
Italian mob's Coochie Gambino in VIP, puffing a cigar.
second-in-command Mr. Lin, and boss Third Uncle (Srei), stone-faced.
Front row: Black gang's Jack Williams screaming into his phone, neck veins popping like cables.
"Listen up."
Michael whispered in his ear, smearing Vaseline. "Don't tough it out. If it feels wrong, signal."
Bell rang.
Victor stood—world spun.
Hanson Chen already center-ring, muscles gleaming like polished bronze.
Victor felt like crumpled paper—wrinkled, fat, weak.
Thirty seconds into round one, he knew step one was locked.
His punches bounced off Hanson like concrete. Every counter flashed white behind his eyes.
Sweat soaked his trunks, dripping dark spots on the canvas.
He heard the crowd murmur—this wasn't the Far East Fat Tiger they knew.
"Get it together!"
Kevin yelled from the corner, but it sounded miles away—and off-beat.
Before round two, Michael tried shoving glucose gel in his mouth. Victor shook him off.
Dizziness surged. Ring swayed under his feet.
When Hanson's jab cracked his chin, Victor felt… relief.
Darkness finally came.
He hit the canvas. The arena exploded.
"FIX!"
"REFUND!"
"FRAUD!"
Victor vaguely felt himself lifted, someone guarding his head.
Angry bettors stormed the ring—security held them back.
A glass bottle shattered where his head had been.
"Move! Get the hell outta the way!"
Kevin's voice.
Victor was hoisted over a shoulder—Kevin's bone digging into his empty gut, making him gag.
Back hallway—Michael waving a paper: "He's hypoglycemic! Hospital proof! This ain't a fix!"
Nobody cared.
A red-faced guy grabbed Michael's collar: "I had six hundred on you, you bastard!"
A Black dude roared: "Coward bailed with low blood sugar!"
Frankie—per Third Uncle's orders—appeared in the chaos.
Calm. Pulled a silver pistol. Fired into the ceiling.
"Enough."
Crowd froze.
Michael yanked Victor's arm—they bolted out the back door.
Meanwhile, across town—Jack's gang HQ was done.
Two hundred pissed-off Black bettors swarmed the rundown warehouse, waving tickets like ghosts in the moonlight.
Jack made one fatal mistake: sank all his liquid cash into a fresh Mexican shipment, betting heavy on Victor.
Eight-to-one odds. Now he owed nearly two million cash.
"Listen, brothers—"
Jack shouted from a second-floor window, voice cracking with fear. "Tomorrow! I swear, tomorrow—"
A brick smashed the glass.
Someone yelled: "Tomorrow? You gonna pull a gun like you did your own mama, you freak?!"
They charged.
Warehouse door caved on the third hit.
Jack's crew fired a few shots—then drowned in the tide.
Half these bettors were from rival street crews. They knew what was inside: drugs, guns, cash, and the pure gold jewelry Jack bragged about last week.
When the first guy cracked the safe—empty—rage hit peak.
Jack was dragged from a vent pipe, silk shirt soaked in sweat.
"Where's the money?"
"Merch… merch at the docks!"
Voice shaking. "Can liquidate—"
Steel pipe to the knee. His scream drowned in roars.
Thirty minutes later, sirens finally wailed. Warehouse: thirty-plus mangled bodies, blood everywhere.
Jack's head hung from the ceiling fan—eyes still wide in terror.
Next morning, Victor woke in his own bed. Kevin watching the news.
"…North Side warehouse gang shootout—at least thirty-two dead…"
Anchor's voice flat as a board. "Police link it to recent underground betting collapse…"
Michael pushed in with three coffees.
"Italians and ASIAN are carving up Jack's turf," he whispered. "Frankie says we lay low in Miami."
Victor tried sitting—dizziness slammed him back. Starving.
He closed his eyes. Last thing before black: Hanson Chen's eyes—not triumph. Pity.
"You know," Kevin said suddenly, pointing at the aerial shot of the warehouse, "those guys who looted Jack? They got enough coke to party half the city into next year."
Then, way too cheerful: "Guess what? Fiona's pregnant! Shawn's gonna be thrilled this afternoon!"
Victor stared. Kevin's brain on vacation—Shawn can't have kids.
But Victor didn't doubt himself. Old hospital job habit: always carry an umbrella in the rain.
Michael kept sneaking jealous looks at Victor.
---
Victor lay on his narrow apartment bed, right eye bruised like a rotten violet. Thinking about what came next.
BAM!
Door slammed open—crashed into the wall.
Victor flinched to rise—body too weak, collapsed back.
"Victor, this is the Chicago Boxing Alliance investigation team."
Old Jack's voice—lower, tense. Gray temples slick with sweat. Three suits behind him.
Victor squinted. Lead guy wiping shiny shoes with a handkerchief—that kick hadn't been gentle.
"They're here to investigate if you threw the South Side Badass fight."
Old Jack dragged three rickety chairs from the corner. "Sit, gentlemen. Kid's malnourished—doctor says IV nutrients, two weeks bed rest minimum."
Lead guy—name tag: Howard Stone—ignored the chairs. Marched to the bed.
Cologne so strong Victor gagged.
"Mr. Victor , you lost to Hanson Chen—130 pounds lighter—in under two minutes."
Howard slapped a stack of photos on the blanket. "Betting records. Right before the fight, massive money flooded in on Williams by KO."
Numbers swam in Victor's vision. Steel heart didn't flinch.
"Ask the Black guys," Victor rasped. "I just had an off night."
"Off night?"
Howard sneered, pulling a close-up. "You didn't fight. You let him hit you."
Air turned thick.
Sweat slid down Victor's back, soaking bandages.
He glanced at Old Jack—tiny head shake.
"Victor, they just need a few questions," Old Jack said, calm as a sparring drill. "Mental health. What was going through your head."
Next twenty-five minutes: interrogation.
Howard and the suits tag-teamed—from training habits to bank accounts, parents' finances to gang ties.
Victor's answers: short. Right fist clenched under the sheet.
Howard stood, traded looks with his crew.
They huddled in the corner, whispering. Old Jack slipped Victor water.
"You're clear," he breathed. "Don't let 'em smell blood."
Old Jack stepped up, politely handed each investigator an envelope—"Plenty of time left today to buy the wife a nice dress."
When they turned back, Howard's face softened—just a touch.
He straightened his tie, flashed a pro smile.
"Get well soon, Mr. Victor ."