Victor stepped out of the hospital doors into a rare November sun that poured down like molten gold, making him squint.
He instinctively patted the neatly folded medical report in his pocket; the paper crinkled under his thick knuckles.
"Everything checks out, Mr. Victor. Blood pressure, sugar, heart—all solid. Especially for someone in your… intense line of work."
The doctor, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, sounded genuinely surprised. "But…"
Victor had tensed right then. He knew that "but" never led anywhere good.
"Your weight hasn't budged. Still 361 pounds."
The doc flipped through the chart. "Your bone density and muscle mass are off the charts, but that load on your joints is—"
Victor tuned out the rest.
361 pounds.
The number echoed in his skull like a ruthless ten-count from the crowd.
Three months of cutting weight, three months of smart training—and not an ounce lost. The flab had just turned into marbled fatback, harder to shed.
He glanced at his massive forearms—veins snaking over muscle, skin stretched over bones nearly twice as thick as average. The scan showed his frame was 50% denser than a guy his height. That's why he could carry this bulk and still survive in a blood sport.
But what good did it do?
Victor thought bitterly.
Back at the nurses' station, the cute young ones hadn't even glanced his way—let alone slipped him a number like they did other patients.
6'1" now—only grew half an inch in three months—and 382 pounds. On the street, he was a walking mountain. People either crossed the road or stared like he was a zoo gorilla.
"Hey, big man!"
A beat-up Ford pickup—third-hand at least—pulled up. Michael leaned out the window. "Need a ride?"
Victor shook his head. He'd walk.
Maybe burning a few calories would make him feel less like crap. Even if Old Jack—his coach—always said this build was pure intimidation in the ring.
"Crowds love monster fights, Victor."
Jack would slap his thick shoulder. "Every punch you throw's like a freight train. Nobody eats that and keeps standing."
But Victor knew the real world wasn't the ring. Outside it, people didn't cheer giants. Couldn't scratch your own back? Small price. But diabetes, heart disease, bad knees? Those would kill you.
By the time he got home, he was drenched in sweat.
He shoved open the heavy fire door to the apartment building—and there was Michael.
"You're back!"
Michael jogged over. He was a full head shorter and had to crane his neck to talk. "Ethan says Carl's waiting for you!"
"Carl?"
Victor frowned. The past month, with all the Fiona and Ian drama, he'd barely spoken to the Gallaghers.
He'd only traded a few words with Lip, but Lip was drowning—Fiona had stepped back from playing mom, and the load fell on him.
Carl didn't give a damn about Fiona or Ian's mess. He even thought it was fine. But now he was stressed—his buddy Nick killed someone and got locked up. Carl wanted out of the gang life.
Victor wiped his sweaty face with the towel around his neck. "What's he want?"
Michael shrugged. "Wouldn't tell me. Said he'd only talk to you."
Carl had grit. That fire might get him out of the South Side.
Victor pushed open the door. Carl was perched on the edge of the couch, clutching a stone-cold cup of coffee.
"Victor!"
Carl jumped up, hope flashing in his eyes. He was in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks—like he'd just come from a job interview or a funeral.
"You look like you just left your father-in-law's house."
Victor waved him to sit, grabbed a cold water from the fridge, and chugged most of it. "What's so urgent?"
Carl took a deep breath. "I wanna apply to West Point."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Good move. You're in shape, smart—should be a slam dunk."
"That's the problem."
Carl gave a bitter laugh, pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase. "I passed the physical, the academics, the psych eval—but I'm stuck on… this."
He slid over a form, pointing to one line: Requires recommendation from a current elected official.
Victor took the papers, his huge fingers careful with the thin sheets.
Carl's transcript was nearly all A's. Physical test—top of the pack.
"You're a standout, Carl. Any politician would jump to back a kid like you."
Carl shook his head, shadows in his eyes. "My parents are junkies with rap sheets. Mental health issues. I've been inside too. Getting that letter? Good luck."
Victor felt a pang of helplessness.
"Sorry, man. I know some sports guys, but I'm not exactly rubbing elbows with congressmen."
Then Michael, leaning in the doorway, spoke up. "I heard Veronica used to 'service' Hanson—before he was a councilman."
The room went dead quiet.
Victor turned. Michael had that half-smirk—like he knew dirt he shouldn't.
So why hadn't Michael warned him off Veronica back then?
"Veronica?"
Carl repeated, confused. "The bar chick knows a councilman?"
Michael nodded. "Word is, she and Councilman Hanson have a special arrangement. She might be able to put in a word."
"That's a big connection."
Carl looked skeptical. "You think… she'd help me?"
"No harm in asking. She goes way back with your family."
Michael shrugged. "Worst case, she says no."
"Alright. I'll try."
Carl hesitated, then nodded.
After Carl left, Victor poured himself a whiskey.
The burn down his throat loosened him up a little.
Michael, Ethan, and Jimmy—the usual crew—grabbed drinks and crashed in the living room.
"You think Veronica can actually pull this off?"
Ethan asked.
Michael grinned, all sly. "I hear Hanson's got… particular tastes. And Veronica? She's got a PhD in satisfying them."
Jimmy—the oldest of the crew—burst out laughing. "Ha! Her only asset's her body. 'Convincing' a politician means sleeping her way in, right?"
Victor's brow furrowed. Jimmy's crude joke hit like a jab to the ribs.
But worse—it made total sense.
He pictured Councilman Hanson's face from TV: slick hair, fake smile, eyes that lingered too long on female reporters.
How do you get leverage on a guy like that?
Later that night, Victor went to Michael and Ethan's room.
"If Veronica's method really is that…"
He spoke slow, a dangerous idea forming. "Then we've got a way to own Hanson."
Ethan pushed up his glasses. "You mean…"
"Blackmail?"
Michael jumped in, eyes gleaming. "Catch 'em in the act. That's career-ending gold for a politician."
Jimmy whistled. "Whoa. We're turning into extortionists now?"
"Not extortion."
Victor shook his head, even though he knew he was rationalizing a clear foul. "Just insurance. Make sure he actually helps—not just blows smoke."
They sat in silence, each wrestling with morals versus opportunity.
Finally, Ethan—the tech guy—broke it. "I know where to get a camera that'll catch everything crystal clear. I can score one."
"They won't do it at his house or hers."
Michael added. "Hotels. I'll dig into which ones Hanson frequents."
Victor felt a twist in his gut—disgust, but more excitement.
In the ring, rules were clear. Ref was fair.
But out here? Power was dirty, messy—and they were about to dive in.
They started mapping it out.
"We need roles."
Michael grabbed a notepad. "Ethan handles gear. I tail and gather intel. Victor… nah, your size is a problem."
Victor nodded.
"What if…"
Ethan said suddenly. "What if Veronica's actually innocent? What if she and Hanson are just… friends?"
Victor and Michael swapped a look. They both knew that chance was slim to none. But Ethan asking showed his conscience was still in the fight.
"Then we delete the footage. Act like it never happened."
Victor said it, but he knew: once you throw the illegal punch, there's no taking it back.
Just like a low blow in the ring—motive doesn't matter. You broke the rules.
Late night. They split up.
Michael moved fast—camped outside Veronica's place that night. Ethan hit the black market for the gear.
Two days later, Michael and Ethan came back with the goods: hardcore photos of Councilman Hanson. The three of them stared at the prints for two hours.
Michael laughed. "Veronica's got skills, man. Real dom energy."
Victor was past caring. He just studied the shots of Hanson—from hotel check-in to walking out, every damning moment captured.