Two days later, the South Side Badass tournament wrapped. Victor dropped one fight but still finished 7-2, tops on the leaderboard. He walked away with the belt and a fat $50,000 purse.
Third Uncle even slid him another $50,000 "consolation."
Boom—$120,000 in the bank. In '80s America, that put him upper-middle class.
The big three gangs raked in millions in bets, but the real win? Jack's crew fading, Black gangs losing ground.
Best part: the mob ink washed off Victor. He could finally just train.
All the Gallagher drama—Sean and Fiona screaming and splitting, Veronica knocked up again, Carl shipping off to military school, Veronica running for alderman—didn't touch him.
Like a dragon hitting open water, Victor felt light. Slept a full day, snoring like a freight train, till Old Jack slapped him awake.
He rented a house on the edge of the South Side. Michael and Jason moved in—studying their asses off while Victor drowned in workouts.
…
Victor stood outside Old Jack's spot, staring at the chipped sign: REAL MEN'S GYM. Simple, brutal—like the man himself.
He sucked in a breath, shoved open the creaky iron door.
"Three minutes late."
Old Jack's voice cut through the dim, clanking iron. "Day one and you're late. You ain't ready."
Victor's throat tightened. His 361-pound frame trembled—not fear. Two months of crash-diet hell had pushed his body to the brink.
Marbled fat and muscle wasting away. For a guy built like a bear, it was humiliating.
"I'm ready."
Voice rough, but rock-solid.
Old Jack stepped from the shadows. Same height as Victor, but hunched, shorter. The presence made Victor square his shoulders.
Jack's hawk eyes X-rayed him.
"Strip the shirt."
Victor peeled it off. Goosebumps exploded in the cold.
Jack's fingers clamped shoulders, arms, gut—every pinch a needle.
"Level-three malnutrition. Muscle down 7%. Testosterone probably half normal."
Voice ice-cold. "Bold move starving yourself free. Just turned you into a punk."
Victor's jaw locked, neck like a barrel. "I'll bounce back."
"Heh."
Old Jack smirked. "Follow me."
They cut through the gym—old but pristine iron—to a back room.
Medical bed center. Fridge and a janky hospital-grade IV pump.
"Lie down."
Jack pulled three amber IV bags. "Three times a day, twenty minutes. High-concentrate nutrients—everything your body's screaming for."
Victor climbed on. Jack slid the needle into his elbow vein. Teeth clenched.
Liquid hit—burning up his arm like a lit fuse.
"Gonna sting," Jack said, flat. "Blood's thick as syrup from malnutrition. Deal."
Cold sweat beaded. Victor didn't make a sound—pointless.
Pain faded after thirty seconds, replaced by warm rain soaking parched earth.
"Just the start."
Jack dragged over a cooler—twelve meal-prepped boxes. "Six meals, 20,000 calories. Don't care how. All of it."
Victor cracked the first lid. Metallic, bitter stench hit—gray-green sludge with suspicious chunks.
"The hell is this?"
Stomach flipped.
"Custom nutrient paste. Protein, vitamins, minerals. Blended for easy digestion—and to make you eat it."
Jack handed a spoon. "Two bucks a bite. No waste."
First spoonful—gag. Like raw liver, rust, and bitter melon fermented in a gym sock.
Taste buds revolted. Jack's stare forced it down.
"Jack, trust me—you ain't a chef," Victor choked. "Next time, don't blend it. Might actually want to eat."
"Good note. Ignored. Finish, rest twenty. Then pool."
Jack checked his watch. "One month to get you trainable. No days off."
Victor shoveled the sludge like a soldier in a trench. Halfway, stomach screamed. Thinking of lost muscle, he forced it.
Twenty minutes later, waddling to the indoor pool, the paste sat like a brick.
25 meters by 7, water freezing—two floating icebergs.
"Eight degrees. Keeps you awake, no cramps."
Jack tossed a weighted swimsuit. "Twenty laps warm-up."
Victor groaned. "Jack, I can't swim."
Jack didn't blink. "You got built-in floaties. Even with concrete shoes, you ain't sinking."
Suit on—shoulders sagged. Twenty extra pounds of drag.
He slipped in. Gasp. Ice water stabbed.
First lap okay. By five, arms burning, breathing ragged.
"Rhythm! Rhythm!"
Jack roared poolside. "Your stroke's weaker than the typists down on Rush Street—and they use fingers!"
Victor adjusted, head up, snarling: "FUCK OFF!"
Lap fifteen—muscles lead-filled. Vision blurred. Pure instinct.
"Last five! Faster!"
Jack's voice cut the steam.
Victor gritted, kicked harder.
Lap twenty—he clung to the edge, lungs torched.
"Five minutes. Then strength."
Jack handed electrolyte slush—salty expired juice. Victor chugged, growled: "Jack, cut the dirty metaphors or I'll swing."
Jack kicked him back in. "Talk when you got twelve-round gas!"
Five minutes later—squat rack.
"315 pounds. Ten sets, five reps."
Jack loaded plates. "Tendons gotta relearn heavy. Legs like bullfrogs!"
Victor eyed it. "In my shape, this could—"
"Rip fibers? Exactly."
Jack slapped his back. "Endurance starts in the core. Your veins are hoses—won't pop. I see it—you absorb like a freak. Pain's the toll."
Under the bar—stab in joints. Malnutrition made bones brittle.
First squat—thighs screamed, knees shook.
"Form!"
Jack jabbed a stick in his back. "Arch! Core tight! Don't pose like you're assaulting someone!"
"Stone face! I curse you, I cut your Rush Street girls—you don't flinch! Pain's a tell!"
"Core! CORE! Shit yourself, you mop it!"
Victor locked in, finished set one.
Jack's insults looped—limited vocabulary.
Set three—standing up felt like birthing a piano. Sweat blinded.
Set five—leaned on the rack, muscles needled.
"KEEP GOING!"
Jack's voice steel. "Pain's just noise. Ignore."
Set ten—legs buckled. Dropped to his knees.
Jack handed recovery drink and pills.
"BCAAs, glutamine. Heal."
Eyes on trembling thighs. "Bench next. Ten minutes."
Hell day one.
9 p.m.—Victor dragged his broken body to the dorm Jack set up. No shower. Face-planted, out cold.
Jack pried his mouth, poured in more sludge. Carb coma—gone.
5 a.m.—alarm blared. Jack loomed.
"First IV of the day."
Shook the bag. "Ten swim sets, breakfast, 6 a.m. sharp for morning session."
…
A week of torture.
Three burning IVs. Six gut-punch meals. Hours swimming, lifting.
But changes came.
Skin turned bronze.
Jack eyed it, suspicious. "Victor, you got Black in you? Why you so dark?"
Victor dropped a 110-pound dumbbell. "Sun's paycheck, man!"
Jack grinned. "Hell yeah—we God's favorites! Always said He's Black!"
Victor shrugged. "Don't buy God. If He had a crew, Judas would've caught these hands!"
HAHAHA!
Laughter echoed.
Muscle soreness faded fast. Strength climbing. Stamina surging.
Week two, post-IV, Jack rolled in a machine.
"Body comp scan."
Victor stepped on the platform.
Buzz. Printout.
Jack scanned, lips twitched. "Up 9 pounds. Muscle +4.2%. Good—but too slow."
Victor knew trouble.
Jack exploded: "Knew it! Week one didn't hit your ceiling!"
Victor yelped: "I'm still malnourished!"
Ignored.
From then—intensity spiked.
Resistance bands in the pool. More sets, heavier weight.
Victor woke feeling roadkill. But mirrors showed wider shoulders, thicker chest, abs carving back in.
Steel bones waking up.
Week three—400-pound deadlift set. Jack nodded—rare.
"Tendons adapting."
Pinched bicep. "Tomorrow—max test."
Next day—squatted 405. Fifty pounds over baseline.
Recovery insane—no long gasps post-set. Gut healed, absorption rocket-fuel for iron kidneys and steel frame.
"Your engine's online," Jack said. "Nutrient uptake at 35%—triple normal."
Victor blinked. "Meaning?"
Jack smirked. "You eat like a hippo, shit like a bird."
Week four—scan results wild.
380 pounds. 22% body fat. Muscle +31% from intake.
Locker-room mirror—he didn't recognize the beast:
Shoulders 55 cm wide—mountains. Arms like oaks. Torso a perfect barrel. Quads twisted roots.
Fuse standing proud like a cannon.
"Malnutrition gone," Jack declared post-final check. "Two rest days. Then phase two—specialized training."
That night, Victor stood center gym, alone.
Wall banner, faded: Pain is progress's price. Will's the only currency.
He touched his drum-tight shoulder—once loose skin, now steel.
Pool sloshes, barbell clangs, Jack's roars, sludge meals, burning IVs—worth it.
Deep breath—iron, sweat, bleach. Suddenly home.
Real fight just starting.
But first? Fiona and Veronica showed up.