Mornings in Chicago's South Side always hit with a special kind of chaos.
Garbage trucks rumbling over potholes, sirens wailing in the distance, some neighbor's TV blasting the morning news—it all mixed into the alarm clock Victor knew by heart.
5:30 a.m.
Victor rubbed his sore eyes and sat up on the couch. He'd crashed there after last night's mess.
The apartment was dead quiet. Ethan's bedroom door hung wide open, bed made up like nobody had slept in it.
Victor glanced at the wall clock—5:30 sharp.
Took him a second to remember why he was on the couch. Then the memories flooded back:
Ethan and Millie had gone out to "celebrate." Victor and Michael rolled in at 2 a.m., waiting to make sure the lovebirds were done and gone their separate ways.
"Damn, got a good thing and won't even share! She's got plenty of hot friends!"
Victor muttered, scrubbing his face with his palms.
He stood—every joint screamed. Nineteen years old, and he felt like a busted washing machine. Two weeks of two-a-day workouts plus last night's letdown—even a steel kidney couldn't take that.
In the kitchen, the fridge held half a carton of milk, a few eggs, and a nearly empty OJ bottle.
Victor sniffed the milk—still good.
He chugged straight from the carton, then dug out a packet of instant oatmeal from the cupboard.
The kettle was just starting to whistle when the front door flew open.
Old Jack's foghorn voice filled the place.
"Victor! I knew you'd still be screwing around!"
Old Jack stormed into the kitchen in his signature brown leather jacket, gray hair looking like it lost a fight with a tornado.
"Final check-in's at nine. We gotta be there an hour early, and you haven't even showered!"
Trailing behind was Ethan—Victor's best friend and roommate. Brotherhood officially on the rocks after last night.
Ethan looked fresh as hell, wearing that dumb post-hookup grin only a guy who just had a great night can pull off. Apparently Old Jack hadn't caught him with his adopted daughter.
"Mornin', future champ."
Ethan clapped Victor's shoulder. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
"Nah, just betrayed by my brother yesterday!"
Victor shot him a glare, but with Old Jack there, he let it slide.
He dumped oatmeal in a bowl, poured hot water, stirred like a madman, and shoveled it in.
"Quit eating—we'll grab something on the way."
Old Jack snatched the bowl. "Shower. Five minutes. Ethan, get his paperwork together."
Five minutes later, hair still dripping, Victor was shoved out the door and crammed into Old Jack's 1958 Chevy Pioneer.
The engine groaned to life, belching a cloud of black smoke.
"Today's the turning point of your boxing life, kid."
Jack said, eyes on the morning rush-hour crawl. "National Boxing Championships—this is your ticket to the pros."
Victor watched the city slide by—from the rundown South Side to downtown skyscrapers.
His stomach churned—not just hunger or exhaustion, but the damn exhaust fumes. "Old Jack, ever think about a new ride?"
Old Jack scoffed. "I'm from 1927 and still running fine!"
Victor had no comeback.
"What do we need for final check-in?"
His voice came out raspier than expected. He coughed.
Ethan turned from the front seat, holding a fat folder. "USA Boxing membership card, proof of age, physical report, last two years' fight records. Old Jack's got it all."
He grinned. "Plus your shiny 20-1 record."
"That one loss was because of someone's dumbass move!"
Old Jack grumbled. "We could've covered for you if you'd just told us!"
Yeah, they could've.
But what kind of strings come with that?
—Who in Chicago does favors for free?
The car pulled up to the Chicago Boxing Alliance Center.
A squat, gray building. A long line already snaked out the door.
Fighters and their crews everywhere—some stretching, some hovering by the scale, a few cramming last bites of breakfast sandwiches.
"Look over there."
Ethan lowered his voice, nodding at a group in matching red tracksuits. "Chicago Boxing Club—biggest training outfit in Illinois. Last year they had three guys in nationals semifinals: girls' youth, boys' youth, and junior boys."
Victor nodded, scanning the crowd.
He could spot the big-club guys—top gear, surrounded by coaches, nutritionists, sparring partners.
The small-gym fighters like him? Solo, maybe one coach or a buddy.
"Iron Heart Gym's here too."
Ethan warned. "See that tall Black dude? Their ace this year. Probably your opponent. Seven KOs in amateur bouts—brutal."
"230 pounds, 6'6". Real giant. Jab like a freight train."
Old Jack squinted, then growled. "Where the hell's Millie? She was supposed to be here already! Kids these days—no damn reliability!"
Victor shot Ethan a look.
Ethan stared out the window.
Victor couldn't figure out how eleven fingers keep a girl in bed.
Inside the hall, the air turned thick and hot.
Sweat, rubber mats, and harsh disinfectant stink all mixed together.
The space was split into zones: document check, weigh-in, medical, and a roped-off "Past Champions Only" area.
"I'm turning in the paperwork."
Old Jack said. "Ethan, take Victor to weigh-in, then medical. Meet at the southeast corner lounge in an hour."
Weigh-in was quick.
Victor stripped to boxers, stepped on the digital scale—371 pounds. No surprise, way over heavyweight limit.
The doc was a worn-out middle-aged guy, but the second he saw Victor, he ran through vision, blood pressure, and reflexes like a pro.
Then he did a double-take. "Big fella, hard to believe—with your size, blood pressure's normal! Your arteries are wider than a San Fernando Valley housewife!"
He stamped the form.
"All set, Mr. Lee. You're officially in the Chicago regional qualifier."
Didn't even look up before waving in the next guy. "Good luck."
Ethan guided Victor through the packed hall, pointing out players.
"That's the old Foucault Gym coach. Trained two Golden Gloves winners, then poached half the gym. Foucault put a hit out—pound his guys."
"Blue tracksuit over there? Ross Nando, last year's national runner-up. Skipped straight to division finals… Oh shit, that's Derek Stone, Illinois youth champ. Left hook cracks bricks…"
Victor tried to file away names and faces, but a commotion at the entrance yanked his attention.
Three sharp-dressed guys walked in. Center: a lean young fighter, blond hair in a tiny man-bun.
"Max Howard."
Ethan whistled. "North Side rich kid. Only started amateur last year—already 9-0. Daddy hired a former pro champ as his private coach."
Victor watched the blond. Every move screamed born-with-a-silver-spoon arrogance.
Then Howard turned. Their eyes locked across the room.
For a beat, they stared. Howard lifted his chin with a smug little smirk.
"Ignore the trust-fund punk."
Ethan clapped Victor's shoulder. "Guy's maybe 210 pounds, eight-pack and all. One punch from you and he's staring at the ceiling lights."
They kept moving through the crowd. Victor spotted a group escorted by actual agents.
Some even had camera crews.
"Pro-adjacent guys."
Ethan explained. "Already signed with agencies. Amateur fights are just for exposure and purse bets. Watch these ones—they're sneakier than pure amateurs. Here for the prize pool gambling."
Around a corner, Victor froze.
By the vending machine stood a way-too-familiar figure—Millie, Ethan's "date" from last night.
Worse—she was standing next to a pretty-boy.
Max Howard.
Time stopped.
Millie spotted Ethan first. Flash of panic. Then her eyes landed on Victor—oh shit, she realized.
Howard followed her gaze, clocked the South Side fighter he'd just eye-balled.
"Ethan… Victor…"
Millie's voice barely cut through the noise. "It's not what you think!"
Howard flashed a winner's grin, pulling Millie closer on purpose. "Darling Miss Millie, aren't you going to introduce your friends?"
Victor felt heat rush to his head. Fists clenched on instinct.
Ethan was pissed, but he held it together, stepping in front. "We gotta go. Old Jack's waiting."
He grabbed Victor's arm and practically dragged him away from the trainwreck.
Millie looked at Max. "You already signed up?"
Max shrugged. "What, you think I'm here to tour the place?"
---
In the lounge corner, Old Jack was studying the bracket sheet.
He looked up at the guys' faces and frowned. "What the hell happened?"
"Did you know Millie's dating Max Howard?"
Victor gritted his teeth. "That guy just learned a lot from Ethan."