It was 5:30 p.m., and the sunset painted Chicago's Chinatown brick walls a warm orange.
Victor stood outside the laundromat with his birthday gift tucked under his arm, cigarette dangling from his lips, waiting for Jimmy and the crew.
"Hey, boss, let's roll," Michael called, stepping out with a fancy cigar box in hand. "Dropped a whole five bucks on this. Old Jack's gonna love it."
Victor turned, smirking. "Hope your five bucks outshines mine. I'm not sitting through another lecture about 'kids these days and no manners.'"
Ethan and Jimmy came out the back door.
Ethan held a red silk box with gold stitching that read Kidney Power Pills.
Jimmy waved a handmade card scrawled in neon markers: Year-Round 20% Off—signed Victor's Two-Year Victory Laundromat.
"You really think Old Jack needs boner pills?" Jimmy grinned, stuffing the card in his jacket.
Victor pulled two sleek bottles of liquor from behind the counter. "Does he need 'em? Maybe not. But me and Michael's gifts are perfect. Ethan's got the cultural flair. Yours, Jimmy? Most practical."
He checked his watch. "Let's move. We'll miss the party."
The guys locked up the shop and drove through the crowded Chinatown streets toward Old Jack's place.
"Real talk, Victor," Michael said from the back. "Why'd Old Jack invite you? His birthday's always just family and a couple old buddies."
Victor shrugged. "Maybe he's finally hooking me up with a real fight."
"Or his daughter's back," Ethan chimed in. "Heard Millie graduated college this year."
Jimmy whistled. "Whoa, boss meeting the parents already?"
Victor shot them a glare in the rearview.
Old Jack's daughter, Millie—smart, gorgeous, track star in college. Rumors swirled, but Victor had never met her. Knew she was five years older, always away at school.
"She's black, right?"
Two blocks later, they pulled up to a classic redbrick apartment—four stories, one of the few old buildings still in good shape. Old Jack lived on the top floor.
Victor rang the bell. The door cracked open.
"Gifts?" a gravelly voice barked.
Victor held up the bottles. "Two bottles of your favorite baijiu. That sincere enough?"
The door swung wide. Old Jack Morrison stood there—pushing sixty but still ramrod straight from his Army days, looking a decade younger. Gray buzzcut like steel wool, scar running from brow to cheek catching the light.
"Come on in, boys, you punks," Old Jack said, taking the gifts with a quick scan. "Better not be junk."
But when he saw Ethan's kidney pills, he busted out laughing. "Jesus, Ethan, you think I'm that old?"
Ethan winked. "Better safe than sorry, sir."
Old Jack shook his head but set Ethan's gift on top.
He led them into the living room—packed. At least a dozen people. Cigars, whiskey, and grilled meat filled the air.
"Guess we're not the only VIPs," Michael muttered.
Victor scanned the room. Recognized a few faces: Coach Foucault from the gym, talking to a guy in his fifties, his signature bald head shining under the lights. Head sparring partner Ray Johnson, mouth full of ribs, raised a beer when he saw Victor.
But two strangers caught his eye—a guy in his early thirties and a woman in her mid-twenties by the window.
The guy wore a crisp military-style shirt with a medic badge. The woman—simple black dress, chestnut hair in a tight ponytail. Not black.
"Who're they?" Victor whispered to Ethan.
Ethan grinned. "Old Jack's son, William Morrison. Just transferred back from a base in Germany."
Victor rolled his eyes. "I meant the girl."
"And Old Jack's foster daughter, Millie Cage. Graduated. Finally home."
Victor blinked. "She's not black?"
"Cage was Old Jack's war buddy. Died. Jack raised her." Ethan looked shocked. "Of course she's not black. And damn—hot, right? Pure Anglo fire."
Victor suddenly felt thirsty. Millie was stunning—the kind of woman you bring home to Mom. He straightened his collar without thinking.
She caught his stare and looked over. Her eyes—rare amber, like melted gold under the lights.
Old Jack brought his buddies over.
"This is Victor Lee," he announced loud. "Best fighter I ever trained. Also the most hard-headed."
Millie smiled and offered her hand. "Heard a lot about you, Mr. Lee. Dad talks about you all the time."
Victor shook it—surprised by the strength in those slim fingers. Not just a pretty face. "Call me Victor. He probably only says the bad stuff."
"Actually, the opposite," Millie said, eyes glinting. "Says you're the most talented student he ever had. Also the most stubborn."
William stepped up, grip like iron. "He says you've got talent and grit."
Victor shrugged. "Average."
"Lucky fighters don't last three rounds," William said, eyeing the calluses on Victor's knuckles. "Those are pro-level scars."
Old Jack clapped Victor's shoulder. "Don't let my son spook you. He's been a medic too long—thinks everyone's broken."
Then he turned to the room. "Alright, kids—cake time."
For the next two hours, Victor kept stealing glances at Millie. Her confidence, the sharp military-family edge—she was just like her dad. But every time their eyes met, she gave this mysterious half-smile. Not flirty. Like she was sizing up prey.
By 9:30, most guests were heading out.
As Victor and the crew were about to leave, Old Jack stopped them. "Victor, you and your boys—stay. Foucault, you too. Study. Now."
The study was Old Jack's sanctuary—never open to outsiders.
Victor and Michael exchanged a look, then followed him down the hall to the heavy oak door.
Inside: dark wood, walls covered in military and boxing memorabilia. Serious vibe.
Old Jack sat in his worn leather chair. Coach Foucault beside him.
Millie slipped in quietly, standing by the window.
"Sit," Old Jack said, pointing to the chairs. "Got something to discuss."
Victor sat, sensing this was big. "What's with the formality?"
Foucault cleared his throat. "You heard of Ivan Drago?"
Victor frowned. "The Soviet boxer? Beat the British champ in Europe last year?"
"That's him," Foucault nodded. "Next month, he and his wife-slash-coach Ludmilla are coming to the U.S. Big publicity stunt. Not just sports—politics."
Old Jack took over. "Apollo's coming out of retirement for an exhibition with Drago."
Victor shot upright. "Apollo Creed? The former heavyweight champ?"
"Exactly." Old Jack smiled. "And Apollo needs two sparring partners. I recommended you."
Silence.
Victor's blood rushed in his ears. Heart pounding.
Apollo Creed was a legend. Even sparring with him was a dream for any boxer.
"Why me?" Victor asked, forcing calm.
Millie spoke for the first time, voice cool and professional. "Data shows your punching style is the closest match to Drago's."
She stepped forward. "Height, reach, weight aside—your angles, power—you're the best simulation Apollo can get."
Victor turned to her. "You're running this?"
"Dad says I'm the temporary sports agent for Foucault Gym," Millie said with a small smile. "I'm handling the event."
Foucault added, "Fifteen sessions over a month. Four hundred bucks each. Gym takes 25%. Doesn't mess with your tournament plans."
Six grand.
Enough for six months' rent on the laundromat. Or that leg machine Drago uses—the one Victor drooled over.
But the real prize? Training with a legend. Getting seen in pro circles.
"I need to talk to my guys," Victor said, looking at Michael, Ethan, and Jimmy.
Jimmy nodded instantly. "We've got the shop. I'll handle your contract."
"Don't pass this up," Ethan said.
Michael grinned. "Imagine the sign: 'Victor Lee—Apollo Creed's Sparring Partner.' Better than a year of flyers."
Victor took a deep breath, turned to Old Jack and Foucault. "I'm in. Thanks for the recommendation."
Old Jack nodded, satisfied. "Knew you wouldn't say no. Training starts next week at Foucault's. Apollo's coming in person."
Millie walked over and handed Victor a business card. "Any questions, call me. I'll send the full training plan by the weekend. And I'm handling your tournament schedule too."
Victor took the card. By the time they left Old Jack's, night had fallen deep.
New neon signs in the South Side glowed through the humid air, painting the streets in dreamy color.
"So," Michael said, slinging an arm around Victor's shoulders, "not only did we land a big gig—boss might be getting a girlfriend?"
Victor laughed and shoved him off. "Until I'm champ, women aren't required."