he next morning, Jimmy was already running his mouth at Blair, calling him a Wall Street washout who wouldn't know a good investment if it bit him in the ass:
"I knew it—Wall Street only cares about dumping our cash into the market! Whether we make money? Eh, who gives a shit—they already got theirs."
"Blair ain't that whiz-kid genius anymore! Wharton churns those out by the dozen—he's nothing special!"
He yapped all morning. Michael and Ethan just muted the guy—Ethan finally told him, "Jimmy, Victor's about to drop seven grand to take over the laundromat in the middle of the block. You need to look over the contract and sweet-talk the owner."
Jimmy's jaw dropped. "Where the hell's he getting that kinda dough?"
Ethan smirked. Jimmy shut right up and cracked open a beginner's guide to business law.
---
The gym always smelled like rust, sweat, and bleach mixed together in a way that burned your nose.
Victor took a deep breath and tightened his wrist wraps another loop.
6:30 a.m.—Real Man Gym had just him and Old Jack, same routine they'd kept for two straight months.
"Add five kilos today."
Old Jack's voice was rough as sandpaper as he slapped plates on both ends of the barbell.
The guy was in his fifties but built like an old oak tree that refused to fall no matter how hard the wind hit it.
Victor just nodded and stepped up to the squat rack without a word.
Two months ago, 430 kilos would've had his legs shaking so bad he couldn't stand. Now? His thighs locked in like hydraulic pistons.
He settled the bar on his shoulders, took a breath, and cranked out ten perfect reps—only the bulging veins on his forehead showed the strain.
"One more set!"
Victor knocked it out.
"Last one!"
Veins popping like crazy.
"Not bad. Hit the pool."
Old Jack wiped his sweaty bald head with a towel. "Two extra sets today."
Victor headed to the resistance pool in the corner.
Two months ago he was gasping after five minutes. Now he could hammer thirty minutes straight against max current and resistance cords.
Water exploded around him as he powered through like a caged whale.
His body was still bulky, but under the fat was thick, dense muscle—he couldn't even float anymore.
Half hour up.
"Done. Get out."
Old Jack clicked the stopwatch. "Footwork drills. Sparring with Ray today."
Victor climbed out, water streaming off his pumped-up back.
Ray was the new guy Old Jack hired just for Victor—a big dude fresh out of community college with no job, working for five bucks an hour, paid by Victor.
Ray towered over Victor by nearly a head but only weighed about 200 pounds—so light on his feet he moved like a greased eel.
"Same rules—three minutes a round, five rounds."
Ray grinned, flashing a gap where a front tooth used to be. "Try not to leave your arms dead on the mat like last time."
Victor laughed. "Don't tuck your hands behind your back and head-butt my fists—my knuckles don't like that!"
Both had fought in South Side tough-man contests, just never against each other. Ray lost that tooth to some sloppy footwork—proof he was still green. He was also roasting Victor for how his arms used to be noodles after every session.
Round one started—and Victor felt the difference immediately.
Before, Old Jack only let him drill basics on the bag or stationary pads. This was the first real spar.
His punches rained down on Ray's arms and torso. Even with gear, every hit made Victor's muscles vibrate.
"Ray! Don't just stand there eating shots! Move!"
Old Jack bellowed from the side. "You wanna fight heavyweight? Then you need a dance partner. Victor's got power, but you think a fight's about who can take more punishment?"
Ray started circling. Suddenly Victor couldn't keep up.
He tried to shuffle, but his feet dragged like he was wearing lead boots—because he was; Old Jack had strapped sandbags to his ankles.
Ray slipped to the side. Victor threw a reflex hook—his long arms paid off. It grazed Ray's chin, light as it was, and Ray's eyes rolled back. He hit the canvas.
"Shit! Round over!"
Old Jack checked on Ray. When the guy blinked awake, Old Jack's voice sounded miles away: "You died three times, big man. Ref would've stopped the fight in a real bout."
Victor leaned against the ropes, panting, sweat stinging his eyes.
He glanced at the wall mirror—the red-faced, heaving fat guy staring back felt both foreign and familiar.
Two months ago his punch force was barely over 400 pounds. Now? 650. Swinging sledgehammers and splitting logs had rewired how he exploded into every shot.
But against a real fighter? He was still a toddler—clumsy feet, easy to kite.
"Ray—again?"
Victor spat out his mouthpiece and raised his fists. "This time I'm chasing you!"
Ray got up, spat blood, and yelled, "Let's go!"
Now that's a tough son of a bitch.
And one of the rare Black guys in the neighborhood who didn't hustle corners or pack heat—just wanted to grind in the ring.
Three rounds in, Victor's arms felt like molten lead. He couldn't even keep the mouthpiece in—threw over a hundred punches. His legs were jelly from all the forward pressure.
Ray was breathing hard too but still danced around Victor's bombs. Victor kept slapping his gut, pissed that the belly fat was holding him back when he lunged.
"Last round—use these."
Old Jack tossed Victor a pair of 5-pound dumbbells. "Weighted shadowboxing on the pads."
"You serious?!"
Victor's arms were already toast. Old Jack roared, "Quit whining like a little Japanese princess!"
Ray held up the pads. Victor shut up and started mechanically hitting—up, down, left, right, six punches each direction, a hundred sets. Every punch felt like his muscles were being ripped apart and stitched back together.
"Explode! You're not petting the damn thing!"
Old Jack banged a folding chair on the floor. "Picture it's the face of the guy banging your wife and smacking your kid!"
Victor suddenly flashed to Michael's cooking—tasted worse than dog crap.
Rage boiled up from his gut. He growled, drove his right fist—dumbbell and all—straight into the pad's bullseye.
BOOM. Ray staggered back two steps.
That's more like it!
Old Jack actually cracked a smile—rare as hell. "Ten more sets. Same tomorrow."
---
That night, Victor collapsed on his apartment bed, every muscle screaming bloody murder.
He reached for the water glass on the nightstand—arm shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Painkillers sat in the drawer, prescription from the doc. He didn't touch them. Old Jack said pain was the body's way of saying it was getting stronger.
Besides, American pain meds and street drugs? Same damn thing. Only difference: the pill pushers were the legal gang, dope dealers just hadn't got their license yet.
Blair texted. Victor called him back:
"Victor, we've had our fights, but for your money's sake—Apple and Nike are not good stocks right now. Apple's latest earnings show Lisa computer sales down 20%. Stock's still dropping."
"Blair, I appreciate it—you're still my buddy—but I've made up my mind. Trust my gut."
"Victor, you got kicked out of high school."
"Has nothing to do with book smarts."
"You've never left Chicago. Furthest you've been is the North Side for work."
"I've decided, haven't I?"
"I think—"
"Blair, we're friends, so I'll listen. But I don't need your think. I think these companies aren't run by idiots. They'll blow up one day. On this? I'm the boss. You execute, take your cut."
"Fine. Your fifty grand's gonna vanish."
"Nah—if I'm right, you still get 0.5% of the profit."
"Thanks, but wasn't it 1% before?"
"1% offer expired."
Victor hung up, gritted through the arm pain, and banged out twenty push-ups—ten more than Old Jack assigned.
Sweat pooled on the floor, reflecting his twisted face.
"Not enough."
He told himself.
---
5 a.m. the next day, Victor was already at the gym door.
Old Jack opened it and raised an eyebrow. "Schedule says six, kid."
"I want extra."
Victor's voice was steadier than he expected. "Strength work."
"Strength work?"
Old Jack looked ready to explode. "So you wake me up to blow up my program?"
"No! I need more power. Six hundred fifty pounds ain't my ceiling."
Victor didn't back down.
Old Jack stared him down for a few seconds, then stepped aside. "Squat rack's over there. Don't cripple yourself. I'm going back to bed."
---
The next month, the Gallaghers stayed quiet. Veronica was officially an enemy. Victor's life shrank to a four-point line:
Apartment → Gym → Lumberyard → Grocery store for chicken breast and protein powder.
His savings kept the bills paid. Every spare second went into training.
When Old Jack's scheduled three strength days a week weren't enough, Victor bumped it to four. Then five.
"You're wrecking my damn plan."
Old Jack cursed when he found out, but Victor caught the old man's crow's-feet softening when he checked Victor's bench form. "But you're a freak, kid!"
The gains were insane—tearing muscle with heavy weight, recovering fast, scientific programming. Upper-body power shot up daily.
Dodging drills went from hell to routine.
At first Victor couldn't last three minutes. Now he could go a full round—four minutes—without eating a single head shot from Ray.
Those 5-pound dumbbells stopped being torture devices and became buddies. He even started wearing them while eating and watching TV until Old Jack warned him he'd get tendonitis.
The breakthrough hit on a Tuesday in the seventh week.
Victor stepped up for his punch-power test like always. The machine's screen lit up—and everyone in the gym went dead quiet:
857 pounds.
"Holy shit."
Ray whistled. "I gotta wind up like a cartoon to hit 770 on a dead bag!"
"So you're still not ready for pro!" Old Jack rubbed his chin. "Amateur circuit's your lane."
"Test again."
Second: 849 pounds.
Third: 862 pounds.
A few early-bird members crowded around. Someone pulled out a camera to snap proof.
Victor stared at his rough, calloused fists—same fists that couldn't break 500 pounds three months ago.
His body was still big, but when he flexed, he felt the steel-cable muscle under the fat.
"From today, you set your own strength days—but don't slack on footwork and agility."
Old Jack clapped his back hard enough to stagger a normal guy. "We're adding real fight IQ. You've got the engine now. Time to learn how to drive this tank."
Victor nodded, a weird heat swelling in his chest—confidence in this body.
He looked in the mirror. Still the fat guy. But the eyes? Totally different.
The guy in the glass wasn't the kid who got bullied at school, chained to gangs, faking low blood sugar to escape. Wasn't the loser who couldn't keep a woman or a kid.
The guy in the mirror was stuffing muscle into the fat—turning himself into a damn beast.
"One more sparring round."
Victor turned to Ray, raised his wrapped fists. "This time I'm breaking your hands!"
Ray laughed, but Victor saw him adjust his mouthpiece and lock in—eyes serious.
Old Jack leaned against a heavy bag in the corner, lit a cigar he had no business smoking in the gym. Through the smoke, his eyes glinted with something Victor couldn't read.