Next morning, Frankie showed up with a weird look on his face: half pumped, half sorry for the guy.
"Victor, got some good news."
He waved the paper. "Rocky and that Russian monster Ivan Drago? Their fight's blowing up the headlines. Media's all over it. Your heat—especially the Tyson talk—got buried. Nobody's using you as wallpaper anymore."
Victor paused mid-punch on the heavy bag, wiped sweat with a towel, and snorted.
"Yeah? Awesome. Should I send Drago a thank-you card?"
Sarcasm dripped like the sweat off his chin.
Nobody likes getting forgotten—even if it's because something bigger stole the spotlight. Feels like a diss.
He'd rather people argue about how he went fifteen brutal rounds with Tyson than act like he never happened.
"What the hell was up with Trump's refs? Those bastards pulled every trick in the book on that canvas. Two months later, ask about it and it's either 'windy' or 'raining.' Even a mute could find his daddy by now!"
"Boxing commission's investigating the refs," Frankie said, "but they claim everything's clean. Oh, and another thing—"
He rubbed his hands, watching Victor's face like a bomb tech. "Tyson Fury's people reached out."
Victor arched a brow. "Didn't he say I wasn't worth his time?"
"That Gypsy King who just lost his belt? What's he want—misery loves company?"
"He's tentatively in," Frankie rushed out. "Dropped to seventh in WBO. Needs a big win to climb back into title contention. Watched your Tyson tape. Thinks you're still busted up… uh… thinks you're a soft touch. You're ranked 116. He figures he can steamroll you, rack up points fast."
The gym air went dead.
Victor's face flashed shock—then pure rage.
His fist clenched; the towel hit the floor like a gunshot.
"Soft touch?"
The words rumbled low, dangerous. "He thinks I'm some stepping-stone he can stomp on his way up?"
Frankie jumped in. "Whoa, Vic! Business-wise, this is gold! Huge spotlight, big purse—"
"James Smith wanted a cheap win! Tony Tucker wanted me hurt! Now Fury joins the party? Fine. We fight. But we fight the highest-ranked one!"
Victor cut him off, eyes like blades. "If I knock him out, where's my ranking land?"
Frankie swallowed, flipped through notes like he didn't already know. "WBO math's complicated, but a win this big—plus your history—at least top thirty. Guaranteed. Fury's a former champ."
Top thirty.
From 116.
A rocket jump.
The humiliation stung less when opportunity smelled this sweet. But the fire? Still burning—colder now. Sharper.
Victor paced, chest heaving, weighing it.
Fury's disrespect was a thorn. Also a ladder.
He needed the win. The rank. To scream to the world: I'm nobody's backdrop. Nobody's doormat.
He looked up, calm and locked in. "Tell Fury's people: I'm in."
Frankie grinned—then Victor kept going, voice like steel:
"But my terms. Non-negotiable.
1. Same purse as him. Not a dime less.
2. No undercard BS. Main event or nothing.
3. Full fifteen rounds. I'm dragging his ass through the mud till he breaks.
4. And most important—refs. Full background checks. Cleanest officials money can buy. Last time, Tyson's cousins nearly killed me in the ring.
They don't like it? Tell Fury to shop for another punching bag."
His voice echoed off the gym walls—every word a middle finger to the doubters.
This wasn't just a fight contract. This was a manifesto.
Especially for him and Tyson: October 25, 1985, was elite-level boxing—not the reckless brawl they called it.
Victor wasn't waiting to be picked anymore. He was picking his path—and making everyone who slept on him pay.
Frankie stood there, stunned by the intensity, then nodded fast. "On it. These terms? Totally fair."
Victor turned back to the bag, slipped his gloves on.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The punches came harder, faster, fueled by rage with a GPS.
---
Inside the window, Victor just finished a core workout that would make most men cry.
Sweat poured off chiseled muscle, dripping onto the soaked mat with tiny plinks.
But he didn't stop. Eyes locked on the mirror, pupils blazing with something obsessive—cold fire made of summit hunger and the need to prove the world wrong.
June's ranking fight was months out, a blurry dot on the horizon.
For Victor, every breath from now on tasted like war.
That last loss—blown out on the scorecards—wasn't just a mark on the record. It was a question mark on his entire style. He'd given everything.
He still remembered the smirk in Tyson's eyes, the crowd's sighs, the suffocating pain of three cracked ribs.
But that injury—and the freakish recovery—planted a wild seed in his manic brain.
His body: iron bones, steel kidneys, insane healing. After multiple breaks, it wasn't just mending. It was upgrading.
A dark, terrifying idea took root.
He pitched it to Michael.
Michael shut it down. Hard.
Victor pushed again.
Michael refused again.
Victor pulled rank as boss. Michael caved.
Then Michael vanished for a week. Victor lost it:
"Say no, fine—but disappearing? What the hell?!"
---
A knock snapped him out of self-torture training.
Michael walked in, frost on his coat. Married life had him polished: perfect hair, tailored suit—totally out of place in the sweat-soaked, testosterone cave.
"Don't you have a wife to go home to?"
"Victor,"
Michael's voice was dry. He patted a manila envelope. "Got what you wanted."
Victor spun, eyes flaring like he'd been handed gasoline.
"Results?"
Hoarse from training, but hungry.
Michael didn't answer right away. Pulled out four stapled reports, handed them over.
"Top two sports trauma hospitals and orthopedic institutes in Chicago. Expert reviews based on your… theory."
Victor flipped straight to the conclusions.
Report 1: "…violates medical ethics, extreme risk far outweighs theoretical benefit. Declined."
Report 2: "…self-inflicted trauma for tissue reinforcement lacks clinical evidence; high chance of irreversible damage. Strongly opposed."
Report 3: "…patient's unique physiology warrants theoretical discussion, but practical application is dangerously reckless. Denied."
Report 4: "…utter nonsense. Rejected."
Four ice-cold verdicts from the best in the game. Meant to drown Victor's insane spark.
"They all said no," Michael stated flatly. "Top experts. Near-unanimous. The tiny sliver of possibility is crushed by uncontrollable risk. No one will touch this."
Victor slammed the reports onto a bench. Papers scattered.
No surprise on his face—just stubborn fire burning hotter.
"They admitted it's possible! Even a little!"
He growled, jabbing a finger at the pages. "They're scared because they're average! They live in textbooks. I don't, Michael—you know me! This is my body!"
He pounded his chest—thud.
"Look at me! Three broken ribs last time—healed thicker, tougher. That's proof from my own damn bones!"
He closed in, eyes blazing. "Weakness, Michael. On that canvas, any flaw gets exposed until it shatters. I have to be perfect. Bulletproof. My body gave me this gift—I'm using it."
He pointed to his side. "Ribs were just the start. Next: shins, brow bones… every spot that can break, I make unbreakable."
Michael didn't freak out like most would. Just pushed up his glasses, calm as ice.
"Even if there's a one-in-a-million shot—who does it? How do you control the force? What about infection, malunion, permanent loss of function? You thought about that?"
"That's why I need you, Michael. Your wife's family hits dirty—I know the stories."
Victor grabbed his shoulders. "You always said I could pull off miracles. Same here. We don't need rule-following doctors. We do it ourselves. Find a secure spot, someone who knows limits… or stage an accident."
The gym went silent. Just Victor's heavy breathing.
Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
Michael was quiet so long Victor thought he'd walk.
Then he looked up. Worry, fear—but deeper, a spark of the same reckless ambition Victor ignited in him.
"You're a total lunatic, Victor."
His voice was soft, but heavy with resolve. "I don't even get why your bones are getting stronger—they should be brittle. But… fine. If you're jumping into this fire… I'm coming with you."
Victor's eyes lit up like a madman's Christmas.
"BUT!"
Michael snapped, deadly serious. "Full planning. Controlled trauma environment. Every contingency covered. We start with ribs—your one 'success.' One sign of trouble? We stop, hospital, now. That's my line, Victor. Cross it, and I'm out."
Victor grinned—feral, wild. "Deal! Knew you were the real ride-or-die, Michael!"