The first half of 1986 in Chicago was pure chaos, because the Bulls' own Michael Jordan dropped 63 on the Celtics in the playoffs and still lost. Even His Airness had nights where the tank looked empty.
Outside, the city was going from spring fever to full-on summer madness: sun blazing, nights shrinking, the whole town buzzing like it snorted something.
For Victor Lee, all of that was just background noise on a TV he never turned on.
From March through May and straight into June, his entire universe smelled like sweat, leather, and liniment. The gym was his monastery, and pain was the religion.
You could set your watch to the soundtrack: the dull thwack-thwack of heavy bags getting murdered, the whip-crack of the jump rope, coaches barking like drill sergeants one minute and hyping you up the next.
Victor's life became a loop: ring, weights, treadmill, ice bath, repeat until the world disappeared.
His knuckles turned into scar tissue and callus so thick you could strike a match on them. His fingers got thicker from deliberately smashing them into the bag day after day. His legs ran sprints and ten-mile jogs until muscle soreness was just Tuesday.
Old Jack, the grizzled head coach, watched every step like a hawk, nitpicking footwork and punch angles. Frankie the promoter ditched the suits in the gym, rolled up his sleeves, and coached tactics himself; those greedy eyes screaming "This is my lottery ticket, don't fuck it up."
The new European guy brought spreadsheets, stopwatches, and zero small talk. He just pointed at inefficiencies and fixed them.
All three of them, for once, agreed on something: Victor's reaction time was stupid-fast.
0.22 seconds.
When the Euro coach read that number in his flat voice, even Old Jack let out a low whistle. That's the edge of humanly possible. By the time the other guy's glove is halfway to your face, Victor's brain has already said "duck," "block," or "counter" and his body obeyed.
Power? 1,285 pounds on the fixed strike machine. Eight hundred to a thousand real pounds on a human body. Enough to turn lights out. They weren't worried about power anymore.
So they went after the cruelest thing of all: durability.
The hardening process was brutal.
"Again!"
Victor's voice came out hoarse, half growl, half plea, but 100% non-negotiable.
Michael and Ethan, his two sparring "brothers," traded a look: part pity, mostly respect.
They weren't holding mitts. They were holding hard rubber batons.
Victor stripped off every piece of protective gear except shorts. His torso looked like carved granite already covered in fresh welts and old purple bruises.
WHACK!
The first shot landed across his ribs. The sound made everyone's teeth hurt.
Victor's whole body rocked, every muscle snapped tight, a grunt leaked through clenched teeth.
He didn't step back. He snarled, "Keep going! Same spot!"
Ethan gritted his teeth and swung again.
Michael lined one up on the side of Victor's jaw, dangerous as hell even pulling his punch.
The blows came down like rain. The gym echoed with sickening thuds.
Victor turned himself into an anvil. Every strike lit his nerves on fire. Veins popped on his forehead, sweat poured off him, pooling dark on the mat.
This wasn't training anymore. It was self-inflicted torture.
Old Jack fought it at first, said it was reckless, permanent-damage stupid.
Victor shut him down with one sentence: "Tyson hits harder than this. If I can't eat these shots, how am I supposed to beat him?"
Day after day.
When sessions ended, Victor usually had to brace himself against the wall just to walk back to the locker room.
At night he fell into bed feeling like his whole body was on fire. Sleep was the only recovery window he got, and pain was the best anesthetic there was; it dragged him into black, dreamless nothing.
But the crazy thing? That insane punishment unlocked something in him. Three of his hidden talents woke the hell up under the beating.
June 15, 1986: final pre-fight physical.
The doctor stared at the X-rays like he was looking at Wolverine.
He pushed his glasses up, leaned in, then looked up at the 400-pound tower of muscle standing in front of him like it was fake.
"Mr. Lee… your ribs. The way they've healed and the bone density… it's not normal. Old micro-fractures? Gone. They've basically fused into one solid chest plate. Your entire skeleton is thicker and denser than any human I've ever scanned."
Victor just listened, face blank, like the doc was talking about somebody else.
Months of getting beat to hell and healing stronger had forced his body to evolve in fast-forward.
Scale still read a rock-steady 400 pounds. After everything he'd been through, he hadn't lost an ounce; he'd actually added more muscle.
This wasn't a man anymore. It was a weapon built specifically for the ring.
Frankie looked at the report and grinned like he'd just won Powerball.
Old Jack slapped Victor's arm and laughed, "Kid, you already had the hardest shield on the planet. Now we poured concrete and rebar into it."
The European coach just wrote in his notebook: physiological miracle.
Victor flexed his fist, felt the power humming under the skin and the iron now running through his bones.
The pain hadn't been wasted. It had turned into armor.
But the real test wasn't in some doctor's office.
June 16: business humming along smoothly thanks to Blair. Audit numbers clean. Victor boards the flight to Vegas.
Airport's a zoo. Reporters swarm like sharks that smelled blood. Cameras flashing, questions flying.
"Victor! What's the game plan against Tyson Fury?"
"Can you really take his combos?"
"You knocking him out early?"
"They say your body is superhuman; is that why you're not scared?"
Victor moves through the chaos like a glacier, sunglasses on, jaw set, security clearing the path. Doesn't say a word.
Until one loudmouth tries to get under his skin:
"Hey, Victor! A lot of people say you hid in camp because you're scared! All that masochistic training just to cover up the fact you're terrified of Fury? How many of his punches do you think your bones can actually take?"
Classic tabloid asshole.
Victor stops dead.
Turns slowly.
The whole place quiets down.
He takes off the shades. Ice-cold stare, zero anger, just bottomless focus.
"I lost to Tyson once. No denying that," he says, voice calm but ringing like steel. "I'm not losing a second time."
Puts the shades back on, turns, and walks to the gate.
Leaves the reporter looking like he just swallowed his microphone and the whole terminal buzzing.
Las Vegas: the city that never sleeps and never shuts up.
Neon trying to burn away every shadow. Money, sex, and adrenaline thick in the air.
The WBO heavyweight fight has the whole town on fire. Tomorrow night is all anybody's talking about.
Tyson Fury, the brash, destructive king right now, all heavy hands and slick movement, running his mouth at the press conference like always.
"Victor Lee? Decent heavy bag, I'll give him that. But heavy bags are made to get hit. I'm putting him down in one round. Those rubber sticks he let his boys hit him with? That's a tickle compared to these fists. Four hundred pounds? Good. He'll make a louder thud when he falls!"
His crew laughs on cue.
Victor's press conference, by contrast, is quiet as a graveyard.
He keeps it short.
"He talks real good. Credit to his parents for giving him such a pretty mouth."
When they ask what he thinks of Fury's trash talk, he just says, "Tomorrow night on that canvas, I'm gonna give him a reason he can't argue with to shut the hell up."
Somebody pushes: "How do you handle his speed and power?"
Victor looks straight at the guy. "He's got his plan. I've got mine. My plan is: whatever he brings, I eat it… then I give him back something he can't eat."
Calm words. Chilling certainty.
Not loud arrogance; deep-ocean, pressure-cooker confidence.
That night, Victor stands at the window of his suite looking down at the fake-bright Strip.
Giant billboards flash his face next to Fury's.
Out there is a circus.
Inside him? Dead still water.
He thinks about those nights falling asleep on fire, every rubber baton strike echoing in his bones.
Pain didn't vanish. It settled in, became part of the foundation.
Fear?
Not even a little.
A man who's already stood toe-to-toe with Mike Tyson doesn't get scared of wolves.
Every time a baton cracked into him, he asked himself four questions in the dark:
Is this as hard as Tyson?
Can it get worse?
Can my body take it?
Will my mind break?
Every single time the answer came back clearer: Yes I can. No I won't.
Body's ready: steel bones, lightning reflexes, one-punch KO power.
Mind's forged harder than the body.
He doesn't care about the crowd, the belts, or even the win right now.
He just wants the test.
He wants to prove every second of agony was worth it. He wants to see what kind of light this body; beaten, broken, and rebuilt a thousand times; can put out when the bell rings.
He cracks his knuckles, quiet pops in the silent room.
The neon out there can't touch him.
His eyes are already on tomorrow night's ring under the spotlights.
That's where all the pain, the grit, and the belief finally cash their check.
That's why, tonight, Victor turned down both Alice and Caroline when they offered to keep him company.
Some fires you don't share.
Some nights you keep for the fight that's coming.