After lunch, the gym got heavy.
Assistants slapped on extra-thick pads, lined the ring with ice buckets and towels.
Apollo warmed up longer than usual, throwing harder than he needed to—like he was trying to shake off some bad vibe.
"You sure about this?" Rocky whispered in his ear. "Forget Ivan Drago's 1,850-pound punches—this guy's fists alone could snap your ribs."
Apollo strapped on the extra-thick headgear, tightening the chin strap. "If I don't get used to this now, Drago'll send me straight to the ER on fight night."
Victor was already in the center, rolling his shoulders slow.
He had gloves on, wrapped with thick bandages, plus custom strike pads—anything to keep from seriously hurting Apollo.
When Apollo stepped up, he caught a whiff of menthol ointment rolling off the guy.
"Rules are simple," Tony said, standing between them. "Victor hits Apollo's guard zones with full power. Thirty-second rest after every combo. Goal: get Apollo's body used to monster impacts."
Apollo dropped into guard, nodded at Victor.
Next second—boom.
Victor's first right straight blasted through Apollo's arms, slamming dead-center where chest meets gut.
Air exploded from Apollo's lungs; white flash in his eyes.
He staggered back but trained legs held.
"Breathe!" Tony yelled from what sounded like miles away. "Don't hold it—you'll gas out faster!"
Second punch—left hook to the ribs.
Apollo twisted, caught most of it on his elbow, but the shock still locked his jaw.
Sweat flew like glitter under the lights.
Third punch, fourth… Victor came like a hurricane.
Apollo felt like a rowboat in a typhoon—every hit rattled his skeleton.
His guard turned robotic, body hunting angles to soften the blows.
"Time!"
Tony finally called it. "Thirty seconds."
Apollo bent over, hands on knees, sucking wind.
Sweat pooled under him.
He looked up—Victor stood calm, chest barely moving.
"With your size, stamina like that?" Apollo forced himself upright as the thirty ticked down. "Again."
Round two was worse. Victor shifted angles; a couple shots slipped through and grazed Apollo's chin.
His head snapped back, teeth clacking loud.
Metallic taste—gums bleeding.
"Chin in!" Rocky shouted from the side, frantic. "Don't give him openings!"
Apollo blinked sweat out of stinging eyes, refocused.
Victor's face blurred in and out.
No mercy in those eyes, no aggression—just scary focus, like a guy clocking in for a regular shift.
By the end of round three, Apollo's T-shirt clung soaked to his skin.
Bruises blooming across abs and ribs; every breath ached.
He refused longer rest—just rinsed his mouth, spat pink water.
"Again," he croaked.
This time Victor switched to Drago's signature moves—uppercuts, straights, wild swings. Victor's inner monologue: This late-Soviet blonde champ's got a whole damn toolbox!
First uppercut came from below. Even braced, it lifted Apollo a couple inches off the canvas.
Second straight hammered crossed arms, numbing his elbows.
"Hold!"
Tony jumped in. "Victor—dial it back. Let him feel the pattern."
Victor stepped back, deadpan. "That was dialed back."
Room went quiet.
Cold shiver up Apollo's spine—if that was pulled, what the hell was Drago's full blast?
Training rolled on. Miguel tagged in for Victor.
Total contrast—guy moved like a ghost, peppering Apollo with fast, surgical combos into every gap.
Apollo's reactions lagged from the earlier beating; crisp jabs tagged his face over and over.
"Faster! Faster! Faster!" Miguel barked in accented English. "Drago's quicker than me—but not by much!"
When the final bell rang, Apollo collapsed on the corner stool, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Crew swarmed—ice packs on swollen spots, checking for cracks.
Black dots at the edge of his vision; blood rushing in his ears drowned everything else.
"That's it for today," Tony's voice cut through the fog. "Same time tomorrow. Apollo—ice bath, then team doc."
Rocky handed him a towel, worry all over his face. "You look like hell, man. Maybe we skip Drago altogether."
Apollo tried to laugh—came out a rasp.
He wiped blood and sweat, stood with Rocky's help.
Passing Victor, he stopped.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice steady as he could manage, "don't hold back."
Victor raised an eyebrow, looked the champ dead in the eye—real respect. "You're the real deal."
Apollo cracked a grin. "Can't let that Russian punk talk trash!"
Locker room—Apollo alone on the bench, staring at the mirror.
Cheekbone turning purple, inside lower lip split.
Hot shower eased sore muscles but not the bone-deep exhaustion.
He replayed Victor's punches—soul-shaking power—and that was just a simulation of Drago…
Mirror guy's eyes held something new: fear.
Apollo wiped steam off the glass, forced himself to meet his own stare.
"No," he muttered. "I ain't scared."
But pulling on clothes, wincing at bruised ribs, the thought stuck:
If training is this brutal, what's the real fight gonna be?
···
Dim neon flickered over the "Bloody Iron Fist" bar sign, painting wet asphalt sickly pink.
Rocky shoved the heavy oak door; inside hit like a wall—booze, sweat, cheap perfume.
Five shadows followed him in, swallowed by blasting rock 'n' roll.
"Listen up, fellas," Rocky yelled over the music, "whiskey here'll make you forget your own damn name!"
Victor wrinkled his nose—371 pounds parting the crowd like a tank—leaned to the bartender: "Lemon water."
Rocky shrugged. Plenty of fighters stayed dry—especially on the road.
Victor took the glass; condensation ran down thick fingers.
"No booze during camp."
His rumble cut through the noise clear.
"Come on, big man!" Speed demon Miguel slapped Victor's back—then shook out his numb hand. "One night off won't kill you."
Across the bar, Ethan leaned in close to Millie, whispering something that had the chestnut-haired agent giggling behind her hand.
Silver hoop earrings flashed under the lights, matching Ethan's sly dark eyes.
"What're they yapping about so happy?" Michael grumbled, fingers drumming his beer bottle.
The twin—same face as Ethan but missing that fearless spark—glared jealous daggers.
Victor sipped lemon water, shrugged. "Probably the diner thing. Your brother's gun draw was pretty badass—and he shoots straight."
His eyes flicked to Millie's slim waist, Ethan's arm draped on her chair back. Throat bobbed once.
"You shot too!" Michael protested—loud enough to turn tattooed heads nearby.
Victor threw up his hands. "Dude, I'm 371 pounds! Millie's not even a third of me!"
"Easy, kid." Rocky slid an amber shot to Michael. "Women are like whiskey—chug too fast, you choke."
Miguel strolled up, glass in hand, gentleman vibe. "Gentlemen, sometimes the older vintage is best!"
Michael snorted. Victor stayed quiet—half tempted to deck Miguel.
Then—cheers erupted from the basement level, cutting them off.
Miguel's eyes lit. "Fight downstairs!"
Down a narrow stair plastered with faded fight posters, air got thick and hot.
The underground pit was bigger than expected—central cage under blinding spots, ringed by gamblers waving cash.
Bald southpaw white guy circling a Mexican opponent—both shirtless, slick with sweat and old scars.
Victor watched a minute.
"Something's off."
Pro instincts kicked in. "Lefty's dumping the fight."
Miguel nodded. "Seventh fake-out. Pulling punches hard. Could end it whenever."
Inside the cage, "Butch" threw wild haymakers but eased off at contact.
Mexican sold the stagger—crowd booed loud.
Bettors hurled tickets at the cage; air thick with cash and curses.
"Classic fix," Rocky sneered. "House bet heavy on the Mexican—cleaning up."
Ethan popped up beside Victor, Millie right behind.
"Baldy's screwed," Ethan gloated. "Boss is losing his shirt."
Victor sour: "You're screwed too. Millie sees your eleventh finger, she'll be real disappointed."
Ethan waved it off. "Victor, we're soulmates."
Victor: "Heh."
Michael: "Heh heh heh."
Then—shift.
Butch flipped the script. Vicious left hook landed clean on the Mexican's jaw.
Guy froze in shock, timbered.
Ref counted ten. Dead silence—then chaos.
"Holy shit!" Miguel yelled. "He actually hit him!"
Roars and curses exploded.
Butch didn't celebrate—just scanned nervous, slipped the cage, vanished into the crowd.
"Told ya," Ethan bragged to Millie, who frowned toward the exit.
Suddenly—lights dimmed.
A near-seven-foot Black giant in a custom suit shoved through, muscles twitching with rage.
"Get Jules and Vincent," his voice rattled the room. "Handle Butch."
Hair stood up on Victor's neck.
Pro fighter's nose for danger—this wasn't adrenaline; this was blood smell.
"We're out," he muttered, planting his bulk in front of Millie.
No response. Turned around—damn it!
Ethan had already bolted with Millie.