Chicago winters always hit hard and fast.
Victor stood by the window of his rundown apartment, watching the first snowflakes drift down. His breath fogged the glass, then vanished.
He hadn't slept. He'd spent the whole night poring over that little red book—its big-picture strategies and rock-solid logic had opened his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot, but sharper than ever.
"No such thing as love."
He muttered the words again, his voice rough like sandpaper.
South Side, 30th Ward, 900,000 people—sure, there were some pure-hearted folks out there, but Veronica damn sure wasn't one of them. This was the "free" market: you're weak, you lose; I'm hungry, I take what's yours.
Outside, the first ray of morning light sliced through the clouds, cutting across his chiseled face.
Victor cracked a smile—no bitterness, just relief.
He turned, headed to the bathroom, splashed ice-cold water on his face. When he looked up, the guy in the mirror had steel in his eyes.
The old iron door at the gym screeched as it opened.
Old Jack looked up and saw Victor walk in, still carrying the chill from outside.
"You're early today."
Jack tossed him a towel. "And you look… different."
Victor caught it, didn't explain, just asked, "What's the workout?"
Jack squinted at the kid.
A month ago, Victor was a lovesick fool. Now? He was a blade pulled from its sheath—sharp and cold.
Jack liked the change.
"Swim for endurance, then strength. But starting today, we're adding two hours of punch combos in the morning. Step it up!"
The pool water was freezing.
Victor dove in headfirst, floating like a bloated pufferfish before finding his rhythm. His muscles remembered every stroke, his lungs adjusted to the burn.
Ten laps. Twenty. Thirty… The numbers ticked up in his head until Jack blew the whistle from the edge.
In the weight room, plates clanged like thunder.
Victor lay on the bench, veins popping as he pressed a barbell way heavier than his body weight.
Sweat rolled down his temples, hitting the rubber mat.
His eyes were locked in—like his soul had checked out and only his muscles were clocking in.
"You're hard as a frozen turd in a Chicago winter today, kid! One more set!"
Jack's voice boomed from across the room.
Victor didn't answer. Just added more weight.
His body screamed, every fiber begging for mercy, but his will was cast iron. After getting his worldview crushed by a woman, Victor's spirit was being rebuilt—stronger.
Pain was the best anesthetic. It drowned out memories of girls' sweet smiles, slick bodies, rotten personalities, and ice-cold selfishness.
At lunch break, Veronica showed up.
She limped into the gym, her perfume cutting through the sweat and rust like a knife.
"Victor!"
Her voice was weak, pitiful. "I got nobody else. I had to come to you!"
"Michael, give her a grand."
Victor was wrapping his hands, didn't even look up. "Make sure she signs the agreement."
Veronica froze.
The guy who was obsessed with her a month ago—who went at her like a jackhammer—wouldn't even glance her way now.
She stepped closer, reached for his shoulder. "Hey, what's—"
"Money's with Michael."
He sidestepped her touch, voice flat and scary calm. "We're square."
Her mouth opened—and out came the bombs:
"You did it! It was you! You ran me over with your car?"
"You're just like your uncle—cold-blooded! You piece of—"
"If you've got proof, take it to the cops. Let them arrest me."
Victor didn't flinch. "No proof? Sign the paper, take the thousand, and get lost."
Veronica flipped back to pitiful in a heartbeat. "Victor…"
He stared her down, cutting off Jack's incoming cussing. "How'd you get pregnant? I know I wrapped it. You must've tampered with the condom. It's done. A grand's my final offer."
She said nothing. Took the cash. Left.
Jack gave him a thumbs-up. "That's it! We don't bust our asses just to waste it on women. You got skills, kid—in America, women come easy."
The gym went quiet again, just the thump of gloves on heavy bags.
That afternoon, Jack drove Victor out to a lumberyard on the edge of town.
Wind howled. Bare branches clawed at the gray sky like skeleton fingers.
"This is Tom."
Jack nodded at a burly guy with a scruffy beard. "He'll teach you the axe."
Tom tossed Victor a splitting axe.
Heavier than expected, but Victor caught it clean. He walked to a pile of logs, copied Tom's stance, and swung.
First chop—the blade glanced off, stuck in the wood.
Victor frowned, adjusted his breathing, tried again.
Three hours later, his palms were blistered, but his swings were smooth.
The axe arced clean, splitting the grain dead center.
Tom nodded. "Not bad, kid. You're getting it."
Victor got the point.
Chopping wood was like boxing—power wasn't brute force. It was coordination, explosion, timing.
He kept swinging until his arms went numb, until the sun dropped, until the lower half of his brain stopped thinking about women.
On the ride back, Jack handed him a bottle of water. "Starting tomorrow, every afternoon—here, at least half an hour."
Victor nodded, chugged half the bottle.
Then his pager buzzed.
Michael, panicked: "Victor, we got trouble! That redheaded Gallagher kid broke in—beat the crap outta me and Ethan! Frank's guys grabbed him!"
Victor's brow furrowed. "Ian Gallagher?"
"Yeah, the psycho one! Same bipolar crap as his mom! His sister just came begging us to let him go. We told her to pound sand."
Victor stared out the window at the blur of scenery, thinking of Fiona Gallagher—that exhausted woman who kept pushing through.
He didn't want any part of this. "Install deadbolts on the front and back doors."
Next morning, Victor was back at the lumberyard.
But he was off. The axe kept missing.
Last night he'd checked on Michael and Ethan at the hospital—nothing serious, but the humiliation stung.
Frank hadn't beaten Ian senseless. Said the kid smelled like crap and whistled when the wind blew. Yesterday, Mickey—the whistling-dick redneck—got half an ear shot off by Frank.
Mickey's crew nearly went to war, but Frank let him go and insisted on sending Ian to a psych ward. Said the kid was clearly unhinged.
"Focus!"
Tom's shout snapped him back. "Don't hurt yourself!"
Victor shook it off, forced his mind clear. Fiona wasn't wrong about one thing: take care of yourself first.
Sweat soaked his tank top, steaming in the cold.
He raised the axe again—and caught a familiar figure in the corner of his eye, standing at the edge of the yard.
Fiona Gallagher.
Wearing a thin jacket, black hair messily tied back, face pale as paper.
She stood there, hesitant, like she was afraid to come closer.
Victor lowered the axe, walked over.
Up close, he saw the dark circles under her eyes, her trembling lips.
"Fiona, you should be resting."
"Victor,"
Her voice was hoarse. "I know I got no right to ask, but Ian—"
"He's bipolar, beat up Michael and Ethan. Frank's their brother—he's in the right to step in."
Victor cut her off, voice like ice. "But this ain't my problem. I didn't press charges for him trashing my place. That's me being generous."
Desperation flashed in her eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. But he's sick. He can't control it. A psych ward will destroy him…"
Victor looked at her shaking hands, her red-rimmed eyes—and remembered his own moment of clarity by the window that snowy night.
No such thing as love—but what the hell was this feeling in his chest?
"So why come to me?"
He stated it like a fact. "You know I'm the last person who'd help. Frank and I are done."
She looked up, tears pooling but refusing to fall. "Because you're the only one who might listen. Old Joe won't help. Even Lip says Ian had it coming…"
Her voice broke. "But I can't give up on him. He's my brother. If you say the word, Frank will back off—for you."
One tear finally fell, freezing in the wind.
Victor—without thinking—reached out, wiped it away with his thumb.
The gesture was too intimate. They both froze.
He was a construction guy at heart. Deep down, he was drawn to faces like Fiona's or Yan Dongping's—simple, honest, the kind you could build a life with.
"Back off?"
His words came out colder than the wind. "That's not respect. That's a rope pulling me into gang crap. I'm not getting involved with Frank. Call the cops."
Her eyes dimmed. "Frank already did. Ian's getting committed."
"Then you save money on treatment."
Victor didn't get it. "Why haven't you gotten him help for the bipolar?"
"Because he's my brother. He's fine at home. Just needs meds."
Victor ignored that. "You're putting the whole neighborhood at risk."
Fiona stared at the heartless Victor, then walked away without a word.
…
But the headaches weren't over.
Victor glanced up at his fifth-floor apartment window—glass intact. His nerves eased a bit.
But as he neared the building entrance, a commotion put him on high alert.
"Freedom of choice belongs to everyone!"
A raspy male voice shouted. "Here, we need unity!"
Victor narrowed his eyes. Twenty-plus people crowded the entrance—mostly women and kids.
Leading them was a skinny, fifty-something guy with messy gray hair and a filthy suit jacket—Frank Gallagher, the neighborhood's infamous drunk and con artist.
"This building has room for everybody!"
Frank waved a liquor bottle, spitting as he yelled. "We can't let a few people hoard resources!"
Victor's knuckles went white on his gun.
These parasites wanted to squat in his safe house while he was out gathering supplies?
"Get lost."
His voice was low, but the closest people jumped back.
The crowd went silent, parting like the Red Sea.
Frank turned, drunk eyes flashing panic when he saw Victor—and the gun. But he puffed up with fake righteousness.
"Ah! Chicago's boxing champ returns!"
He spread his arms like greeting an old pal. "We're discussing fair resource distribution. As a community member, you have a duty—"
Victor raised the gun, aimed right between Frank's eyes.
Gasps. Kids started crying.
"I said, get lost."
He counted slow. "Frank, for the sake of your kids, I'm giving you to five."
Frank's face twitched, the booze clearing fast.
He raised his hands, backing up. "Easy, friend. We just want shelter. Look at these women and children. Chicago winter will kill them. You can't—"
"One."
"This is a crime against humanity! In the South Side, we help each other!"
Frank's voice shook.
"Two."
The crowd stirred. Women pulled kids back.
Sweat beaded on Frank's forehead, glinting in the sunset.
"Alright! Alright! We're going!"
He stumbled back, yelling. "But you'll pay for this, Victor! God will punish your selfishness!"
Victor smirked. "If you die and meet God, ask him how hard he punches."
Frank spun to the crowd with a dramatic wave. "Come on, family! This fascist doesn't deserve us! New Fiona! New Lip! New Ian! New Carl! Let's go!"
Victor frowned.
Those names sounded like bad knockoffs.
He noticed a few teens in the crowd—a redheaded girl, a smart-looking guy, a lanky blond, and a pissed-off dark-haired kid. Frank was using them as replacements.
As the crowd dispersed, Frank turned back, eyes sly.
"You know what, Victor? You and me—we're the same. We only care about ourselves."
BANG!
Victor fired.
The bullet grazed Frank's ear, smoking hole in the wall behind him.
Frank screamed, hit the ground, pants instantly soaked.
"Next time, I won't miss."
Victor said it cold, watching Frank scramble away.
The crowd scattered, screaming.
Victor watched them vanish around the corner, then lowered the gun, walked inside, slammed the reinforced metal door, and threw all three locks.
Peace and quiet?
Nope.
The lesbian couple next door stepped out—right onto Victor's lawn.
He fired a shot into the air.
They bolted.
The South Side's a total mess.