Victor walked into the gym and every head turned. You couldn't miss the Asian kid.
Sure, he had the skin tone, but everything else screamed Hulk. Only 6'1" (short for a pro heavyweight), in a ratty gray hoodie and beat-up kicks, he looked like any random Chinatown immigrant you'd pass on the Philly streets. Except nobody that jacked walks around looking normal.
He'd already taken over the gym in just a few days.
"You always this early?" Rocky Balboa sized him up, eyes sharp like only a pro fighter's can be. "What, no phone numbers slipped under your door last night?"
Victor just nodded. Morning wood was handled back under the covers.
"Apollo's warming up inside," Rocky said, jerking a thumb. "Says he needs someone who can hit. Damn, kid, I'm jealous of those guns."
Victor peeled off the hoodie. His torso exploded with muscle, the red tiger tattoo snarling like it was alive.
But the real showstopper? His hands. Knuckles like boulders, callused to hell, scarred from years of punishment.
"Don't worry," Victor said calmly. "He won't be disappointed."
Inside, Apollo Creed was skipping rope, sweat soaking his white tank. The former champ had been retired for years but still looked like a damn anatomy chart.
He stopped when Victor walked in, wiped his brow.
Day two of sparring was a mini war, way nastier than yesterday.
Victor hid his bombs behind jabs, hooks, uppercuts. Power started in his feet, twisted through his hips, and exploded out of those granite fists. You couldn't see where it came from.
First round, a sneaky right uppercut sent Apollo stumbling back two steps.
"Shit!" Apollo spat out his mouthpiece, doubled over clutching his gut. "You trying to punch my damn soul out, kid?"
Victor didn't answer. Just reset stance. Eyes locked, calm, like this was just another Tuesday.
Thirty minutes later, Apollo's chest and abs were covered in red welts. Victor's right knuckles were bleeding from the impact.
"Tomorrow again?" Apollo wheezed.
Victor nodded, started packing up.
"Hey," Apollo called. "Miguel's making his famous burritos tonight. Come eat."
Victor paused, then nodded again.
For the next two weeks, Victor became a fixture, like the heavy bags.
6:30 a.m. sharp, before the Philly sky even turned gray, the gym door creaked open.
Victor, first one in. Faded navy sweats, water jug in one hand, towel over the shoulder, quiet as a ghost.
Sometimes Apollo showed up late on purpose. Every time he pushed through the door, Victor was already warming up on the bag, sweat rolling down his jaw.
"Your shoelace is untied."
Mid-spar, Victor said it out of nowhere.
Apollo glanced down, and bam, an uppercut rocked him back.
"Distraction gets you hit," Victor said, shaking out his wrist. His punch angles were evil, like a cobra waiting to strike.
Apollo scrambled back, a muffled "fuck" lost in the chaos.
Afternoon film sessions were like surgery.
Victor rewound a three-second clip twenty times until Apollo could recite Drago's eyebrow twitch frame by frame.
"Soviets turned him into a machine," Victor said, drawing dotted lines on the screen with a pencil. "But even machines have worn gears."
He pointed out Drago's habit of licking his back molar in round seven, a tell for fatigue.
One day Rocky brought in grainy old footage from last year, snow on the screen like a blizzard.
Victor hit pause. "Look at his left hand wrap."
Everyone leaned in. Drago always left the first joint of his pinky exposed.
"I saw a Siberian use that wrap," Victor said, wiping coffee Miguel spilled on the screen. "They call it the 'Polar Bear Trap.'"
Dinners were at the Greek spot next door.
Victor always took the corner seat, back to the wall, sniffing the olive oil before dipping bread.
One rainy night, when Apollo started hyping the upcoming fight, Victor put his fork down.
"You never should've taken this exhibition."
Rain streaked the window like rivers. His voice was colder than the hail outside. "It's just propaganda. No reason to step in the ring."
Night fifteen, after training, the crew sat on the gym steps drinking beers.
Philly summer night, thick and sticky. Sirens and streetball echoes in the distance.
"Why do you fight, Victor?" Apollo asked suddenly. "Not money. You live like a monk."
Victor took a sip, quiet for a beat. "Small dreams get small results. I want the big one."
Miguel nodded. "Fame. Glory. The whole deal."
"So money is your only reason," Rocky said.
"Before '75, you were broke too, Rock. What'd you fight for then?" Victor rolled the can between his palms. "Money."
Apollo clapped his shoulder. "After this exhibition, I'll get you in the door. America needs fighters like you."
Victor smiled, said nothing.
Moonlight made his face unreadable.
Last day of camp, the air was heavy.
Tomorrow, Apollo flew to Vegas for the Drago spectacle.
Media was calling it "Freedom vs. Communism." Reagan himself called Apollo "the spirit of America."
After the final session, Victor stopped him.
"I need to tell you something," Victor said, dead serious. "About Drago."
Apollo raised a brow. "Found another weakness?"
Victor shook his head. He barely watched full movies, just bootlegs and black-and-whites. "Ivan Drago isn't human. I've studied the tape. His power's not natural. Soviets trained him like a weapon, drugs, shocks, brainwashing. He punches through concrete."
Apollo laughed. "So you think I can't handle him?"
"This isn't a joke, Apollo," Victor snapped, voice rising. "Drago will kill you. This isn't an exhibition. The Soviets want your body as a message. Their leaders might not, but plenty do."
Apollo's smile vanished. "You know what this fight means? It's America showing strength! If I back out, the world laughs at us."
Victor's eyes flashed. "Us? When has America ever called people like me 'us'?
Chicago winters, my family crammed in a freezing apartment, where was America? Gang shootouts, bullets through my window, one in my gut, where was America then?"
Apollo's face darkened. "Listen, Victor, if you don't love this country—"
"Love? Love?" Victor sneered. "America doesn't want me unless I pay taxes. Now it wants me to bleed for it? Drago's just Gorbachev's PR gift to look friendly. You can't even see the politics, Apollo."
"You're a coward! A traitor!" Apollo roared. "I thought you were a real fighter. Turns out you're just scared!"
Victor's face twisted. "Traitor? I never pledged to any flag! My loyalty's to my family, to Michael, to Ethan, blood. Like the Irish sending guns to Northern Ireland while starving here. Like every immigrant marked and watched. We're just following America's rules!
But not for a country that never saw me as a citizen. And sure as hell not for a patriot-blinded fool like you!"
Rocky jumped between them. "Enough! Cool it, both of you!"
Apollo shoved him aside, jabbing a finger in Victor's face. "Tomorrow I fly to Moscow. I'll prove who's right with my fists. And you, Victor? You're just a lost soul, sold by your country, never belonging here!"
"You too, huh? Oh right, you think you landed with the Pilgrims!"
Victor took a deep breath, anger cooling to ice. "Good luck, Apollo. Hope America remembers your name when they carry you out."
He turned and walked off. His shadow stretched long under the yellow Philly streetlights, lonely and final.
Outside the gym, only Apollo's heavy breathing and Rocky's tired sigh remained.
Michael and Ethan were pissed on the ride home.
Ethan spoke first. "That guy's clueless. You know why no active champ took Drago's fight? Everyone sees the setup."
"He doesn't know, because he's part of the system!" Victor snarled.
He ignored Millie in the passenger seat, all-American girl. "His investors got sold, so his manager got sold. Leaves him and his coach, too blind to see far."
Michael glanced at Millie. "So… we were backup?"
Victor's eyes widened. "Shit. That's it!"
Millie shook her head. "I didn't know that part. But I do know the military won't let the Soviets have a super-soldier. Drago's got to lose."