"Caroline, think this through before you say anything else!"
Victor's voice dropped low, carrying a chilling certainty. "I just need to know that if Martin runs into trouble and tries to pin it on me or hurt me, he'll pay a price he can't even imagine.
Thanks to the Brooklyn Eagle, that price right now is just a few months of drama, keeping you from going out and having fun. So, chill out, Miss Channing. Once you're done venting, figure out how to handle your reporters and friends."
"That five million..."
Caroline practically growled the words through gritted teeth.
"That five million is already planted in Tulsa soil, even if nothing's growing there yet."
Victor cut her off. "As for why Martin hasn't shown up at my door, I don't know and don't care. I only care about results. The result is, I used the money. I'll handle the business. I've got insurance too. Call's over—I've got training."
"You..."
"Oh, and Caroline, don't cause me any trouble!"
Victor ignored her and warned, "I'm a guy who cares about his reputation. I don't want any hats put on me. Until you and I break up, don't let anyone know you're messing around, or it'll get ugly."
Without waiting for her to blow up again, Victor hung up.
He tossed his phone onto the old couch nearby, like he'd just dealt with some minor annoyance.
On the other end, Caroline's rage, despair, and humiliation couldn't pierce his mental armor, forged from rubber rods and brutal training.
Victor's mind wasn't totally calm, but he shoved all the emotions down, turning them into colder calculations and a stronger will to survive—he even thought, if Martin goes down, he'd just keep that five million!
He'd expected Caroline's rant; even the article's appearance was something he'd nudged along, directly or indirectly.
He needed chaos, smoke screens, to muddy the waters.
Martin's silence was too weird, like the calm before a storm. Either he's already under investigation, or he's figured out how to slip away—either way, Victor had to prep ahead.
Going public with his "relationship" with Caroline, even if it was crude, was a risky move. It pulled her deeper into the mess and tested Martin's limits.
Humiliating Caroline? That was just collateral damage—in his big-picture weighing, it was acceptable. Gossip like that wouldn't touch Victor anyway.
"What's up? Your 'high-class girl' throwing a fit?"
Michael asked with a grin, hefting the rubber rod.
Victor turned, dialing another number:
"It's me, Alice."
"Thanks for the help this time. I'll show my gratitude, but I need one more favor from you."
"Alice, it doesn't matter who speaks up or who stays quiet. What's key is who's been silent all along. This time, Martin didn't jump in to defend his daughter."
"It's nothing big. Caroline's just a clueless airhead. I'm only asking about Martin Channing's whereabouts."
"Newspapers, press conferences, board meetings—any info works. I want to know how many days Martin's been off the radar."
"Cool, thanks. Can you make it to Vegas in June for my fight? I really need your advice."
"Caroline? Nah, don't worry about her. It's all just an act. She lives her life, I live mine. No feelings involved between us."
"With you? Alice, I don't do feelings—just following hormones."
"Alright, see you there."
Hanging up, Victor headed back to the center of the room, working out his still-sore jaw and thick neck. His bones let out a soft click.
Ethan smirked: "Looks like we've got a real jerk in the family!"
Michael chimed in: "Five million for one date? That's a steep appearance fee!"
"No big deal, I've got the chops for it."
Victor's tone was flat. "Just some noise. Back to training."
...
In South Side Apartment 2312, sweat, dust, and a faint metallic tang of blood hung in the stale air.
Victor Lee had just set his defensive stance when Ethan's heavy rubber stick came whistling down again.
"Thwack!"
The dull smack sounded like a weight hitting a wet sandbag.
Victor's thick, solid skin tightened over his back muscles, a red welt turning purple fast.
He didn't even grunt, just shifted his feet a bit to absorb the pain that'd floor most folks.
"Thwack! Thwack!"
The stick landed precisely on his outer arm, then his thigh front.
Each hit was angled and powered just right—to max out the hurt while toughening the bones beneath.
Victor's eyes were blank, like the body taking the punishment wasn't even his.
He squeezed out every stray thought, like exhaling stale air.
The world shrank.
Just this peeling-walled room with worn mats, the next strike, the next breath.
Pain wasn't an enemy to fight anymore—it was quenching water, forging hammer.
"Alright, warm-up's done."
Ethan caught his breath, tossing the stick aside with a thud.
He grabbed a modified rubber bullet gun from the wall.
"Moving target. Same rules: dodge the vitals, catch it with what you can take."
Victor nodded silently.
He crouched low, center of gravity down, like a beast ready to pounce.
"Zip—thwack!"
First rubber bullet hit his tensed abs.
"Zip—"
He jerked his head aside; it grazed his temple, ruffling his sweaty hair.
"Zip—thwack!"
Another smacked his blocking forearm.
Training went on in silence, just the whoosh of bullets, impacts, and heavy breathing.
Victor's moves got quicker, reactions sharper, like his nerves were predicting every shot.
His body wasn't just learning to take hits—it was instinctually finding the best way through the pain.
Finally, Ethan set the gun down.
The vibe shifted, turning heavier.
He knew the last, most crucial part of daily training was coming up.
Ethan picked up the heavy rubber stick again, weighing it in his hand, eyeing Victor with a mix of emotions.
Victor didn't budge, just tweaked his stance—chin tucked, neck muscles bulging like rebar, rooted to the floor.
"Ready, tough guy?"
Ethan's voice had a subtle rasp. "This one's gonna be heavy today. Think Fury's punches—ten times worse."
Victor's gaze stayed flat, not even on Ethan, just staring at some invisible spot in the air.
"Just noise."
He echoed his earlier words, tone steady as ever.
Ethan said no more.
He took a deep breath, gripped the stick two-handed, twisted from the waist, channeling all his power.
The stick cut the air with a scary whistle, swinging low to high at a tricky angle—right at Victor's jaw, the head's weakest spot for a knockout.
"Bam!!"
A deeper, meatier boom exploded in the room than any before.
Victor's head snapped sideways, the massive force making his neck vertebrae creak sourly.
Black fog hit his vision, gold sparks dancing in it.
Ears rang sharp, like a swarm of cicadas screaming.
Jaw went numb and throbbed peak pain, shock rippling up bones to his skull, hitting with nausea and dizziness.
His ripped body wobbled, but feet stayed glued—no step back.
He shook his head, feeling like it wasn't his anymore, kinda warped, and slowly straightened it with robotic stiffness.
He opened his mouth, spitting bloody saliva—inside cheek cut by teeth again.
No wipe for the blood on his lip; he just refocused.
His eyes were deeper, colder now—like bottomless icy pools sucking in light. No human flicker, just pure calm and inhuman grit.
The pain wave crashed and faded, leaving weird numbness and crystal-clear awareness beyond hurt.
In that clarity, outside noise finally broke through his training wall, rippling his cold mental lake—who knows how Rocky toughed it out?
Waiting online, super urgent!
"How's it feel?"
Ethan's voice snapped him back, with a hidden worry.
He tossed Victor a towel and iced water bottle.
Victor caught them, wiped sweat and blood from his face, unscrewed the cap, and poured ice water over his head and neck, jolting his buzzing nerves.
"Can't get worse! Clear-headed enough."
His voice was raspy, jaw still aching with movement, but tone back to even.
"Ribs, jaw, brow, cheek..."
Ethan trailed off. "You're pushing limits every day. We respect it, but this could mess with your life later. Lots of boxers don't live long 'cause they got beat up too bad young."
"No what-ifs."
Victor cut him off, sharp gaze sweeping over. "Either tough it out and live big to fifty—that's a win—or go down, and I could run with gangs like Frankie. But we don't get to fall."
Michael suggested: "I think you should see a doc. Concussions can mess with your head."
"Keep training."
Victor's eyes went blank and sharp again, shoving down worries, vents, lows: "After Fury, I want one fight a month!"
He needed to get stronger, way stronger.
Not just tank hits—crush opponents.
The June 17 bout with Tyson Fury was a key piece: cash, fame boost, test of his hammered body and will, and proof to the boxing commission of his worth.
"Come on, Ethan."
Victor's voice was ice-cold, with a chilling resolve. "That last one wasn't heavy enough. Again. Aim for my ribs!"
Ethan met those endless, chilling eyes—something in them gave him a shiver.
He quietly picked up the stick, weighing it once more.
"As you wish, tough guy."
The stick whistled again, slamming into that man who seemed beyond flesh and blood.
Here in South Side Apartment 2312, it was all pain, endurance, and pushing past human limits.
Victor Lee, this "punching bag" from Chicago's underbelly, was carving his path to survival and revenge the brutal way.
Media storms, big-money threats, emotional tangles—all just background static.
The real fights, under spotlights or in hidden shadows, were just getting started.
His mind, through hits and threats, had toughened like his 70% denser bones—hard, cold, almost inhuman.
...
Ethan: "What's with him going nuts today?"
"Since that paper hit, Max hasn't called back,"
Michael nodded at the Motorola: "Victor tried, but it rings out—no answer."