South Side Chicago – Horizon Sports Training Center
The air was thick with sweat, leather, and bleach, backed by the thump-thump of heavy bags and ragged breathing; a gritty symphony of power.
Victor, shirtless, bronze skin slick, muscles carved like oak, unloaded on a 200-pound bag. Every punch detonated; the bag swung wild, chains groaning like they were about to snap.
October 25th he'd been beaten so bad he could barely stand. Fourteen days later the bones were healed and he was right back at it. Business was just an idea; boxing was his currency.
But his eyes were drifting, fists vicious yet unfocused.
"Cut it!"
A gravelly bark sliced through the rhythm.
Frankie (new promoter, old-school coach) stomped in, cigar clamped in his teeth. Still skinny as a rail, eyes like a hawk, radiating pit-bull energy.
"Victor, you're punching like a damn prom queen! Still daydreaming about Moscow snow?"
His voice bounced off the rafters; a couple young fighters glanced over.
Victor stopped, wiped his face with a towel, didn't answer right away.
He walked to the sideline, picked up a telegram, read it again. From Rocky in Moscow: "Winter's cold here, but the fight's hotter."
Frankie snatched it, scanned it, snorted. "I know you and Balboa go way back. But listen up! You're 6-1, a businessman, the face of Horizon!
You're not some alley cat who can vanish whenever. June, you've got Fury! That ex-champ's foaming at the mouth to rip you apart and cash in on your hype!
You need every second in this gym, not jetting 5,000 miles to play therapist for a has-been!"
Victor finally looked up, calm but rock-solid. "Frankie, Rocky's not 'a has-been.' He's my friend. And Ivan Drago? That dude's a freak. Rocky needs me."
"Friend?"
Frankie barked a laugh, blew a smoke ring. "Friendship's the most expensive hobby in boxing! Look at Hadda; your old agent now running the sports side. That 'friendship'?
Nah; because you make bank, because Horizon gave him a bigger slice! And Foley? Your old promoter; you booted him the second you decided I could hustle better! Where was 'friendship' then?"
The jab landed clean.
Victor went quiet.
Yeah, to level up the empire he'd picked Frankie; tougher, connected, knew the dirt; and sidelined Foley after a year. The original deal had been shady anyway.
Cold business. No denying it. But late nights, guilt still nibbled.
"That's different," Victor said, voice low. "That was business. This is… war. Pure war. Rocky's not just fighting a guy; he's fighting a system, a symbol. Something's off in Moscow. I feel it. And I think he can win."
"Feel it?"
Frankie nearly jumped. "Your feelings gonna block Fury's right hand? Gonna outdance that dancing fat man?
Kid, I love the loyalty, but loyalty don't pay rent! You're not here to play hero!
Horizon Windy City, Snow Honey restaurants; hundreds of our people eating because of you! Fiona Gallagher's killing it in the South Side; her take-home's almost a fight purse; but it's all riding on your name and Horizon's rep! One loss and the house of cards wobbles!"
Victor's fists clenched.
Frankie was harsh, but dead-on.
No more lone wolf. His choices carried the whole crew, the whole community.
Blair's conglomerate was finally humming; security patrols had cleaned up the streets; everything clicking.
Every move had to be weighed.
The scale inside his head rocked hard.
One side: brotherhood, the itch to face a monster (hell, he was already curious about this Drago he'd never met).
Other side: duty, money, the grim future Frankie painted.
Then his private line buzzed.
Blair.
"Victor," Blair's voice; cool, measured. "Frankie filled me in. I get the Rocky bond.
Emotionally, not my lane. But from the group's view, your image is asset #1. That said…"
Pivot. "Word is the Soviets want to flex 'new image' with this fight. Drago's their poster boy.
You being ringside, eyes on the enemy; could be strategic for us down the line. Provided you stay safe and don't get tangled in their mess. Primary mission: prep for Fury."
Blair handed him a rational off-ramp; turned impulse into intel.
Victor exhaled, decision locked. The company serves me, not the other way around.
He faced Frankie, still fuming. "One week. That's it. I'm there and back.
I swear; no ring, no fights. Just moral support and scouting Drago. Then I'm home, 100% on Fury. I will not lose."
Frankie glared, sucked the cigar to the filter, finally threw up his hands. "Goddamn stubborn mule! One week!
One extra day and I'm dragging your ass back from Red Square myself! And you train twice a day; Hadda's on your ass!"
···
Moscow
The cold hit like a slap; breath froze mid-air.
Different vibe from Chicago's chaotic energy. Here the streets felt heavy, watchful.
Victor met Rocky at the hotel.
Rocky's face was wind-cracked from Siberian gusts, but his eyes burned hotter than ever. Leaner, harder.
"Victor! You really came!"
Rocky crushed him in a bear hug. "Thought I was friendless out here!"
"You look solid. Little tense, though."
Victor punched his shoulder.
"Tense?"
Rocky's grin was complicated. "Maybe. This ain't normal, Vic. Drago… he's a robot. No pain.
They say steel bones, computer brain. Papers call him the 'New Soviet Warrior.'"
He dropped his voice. "And it's bigger than a fight. They want Drago to prove something. The air here… it's thick."
Victor felt the weight.
Not just a monster opponent; a political chess piece.
"Listen, Rock," Victor said, dead serious. "Don't let the noise in. He's still two arms, two legs, one head.
On that canvas it's just you and him. Forget symbols. Fight for Apollo. For you. To show the Italian Stallion's heart still thumps louder than theirs."
Rocky locked eyes, nodded hard. "You're right. Thanks, man. You being here… means the world."
Knock at the door.
Soviet sports official; tall, stone-faced, flanked by a translator.
And behind them; a tower.
Ivan Drago.
Half a head taller than Victor, built like a comic-book villain, eyes empty, scanning Victor like prey before settling on Rocky.
The official spoke through the translator, smug and scripted: "Mr. Balboa, this is Comrade Ivan Drago.
He heard boxer Victor Li is in Moscow and wishes to meet… a future opponent."
The last words dripped.
Victor's brow twitched. He stepped up, met Drago's stare. "I'm Victor Li. They say you hit hard. But you're no match for Rocky."
Translation done, Drago's lip twitched; barely. Mockery or indifference.
He spoke; thick accent, voice like gravel. "I watched your tapes. Explosive. Strong. But against absolute power; you break."
Air crackled.
"Your power?" Victor sneered. "Juiced in a lab, stacked on machines? Every fight I've bled in was real.
You? Just a show pony they built to flex muscle. Real strength? Same as your tanks in Afghanistan; paper tiger."
Drago's eyes sharpened; cold killing intent rolled off him.
The official paled, tried to cut in, but Drago took one step; presence like a freight train.
"Tool?" His voice dropped. "Soon you learn what a tool can do. You and the old man; stepping stones."
Victor knew; Frankie had Drago on the shortlist for future matchups.
Rocky surged, pissed; Victor blocked him with an arm.
Victor leaned in, nose-to-nose, sparks flying. "Yeah? We'll see. Beat Rocky first, then talk.
Biggest mistake? Underestimating a champ's heart."
He slowed, deliberate: "New York, Moscow, anywhere; the ring don't care about politics or labs. Only guts and will."
Drago stared death for a full minute, then snorted, turned, and left.
Official shot them a dirty look and scurried after.
Room went quiet, tension thicker than the cold outside.
Rocky watched the door. "See that? Ice-cold monster."
Victor shook his head, deadly serious. "No, Rock. I saw something else.
He's a weapon, sure; but I hit a nerve. Deep down he wants to be seen as a real fighter, not a prop.
That's the crack. Use it. He's not invincible. Day after tomorrow I'll be ringside watching you shatter the steel myth."
Outside, the Moscow wind howled.
Victor couldn't wait to see Rocky break the machine.