Las Vegas nights are pure mirage: neon, cash, and every sin you can name stacked on top of each other like a house of cards.
The press-conference circus was barely cold, but Victor was already somewhere else entirely: the private salon on the top floor of the MGM Grand, the kind of room regular money can't even sniff.
The air was thick with Cuban cigar smoke, 30-year scotch, and that quiet, heavy smell of power.
Victor still had butterflies taped over his eyebrow and a bruise blooming across his cheekbone that looked purple-gold under the soft lights: war paint from the fight everybody was still talking about.
Ethan stood behind him like a statue with eyes, Michael and Frankie flanking him, all three silent and locked on.
Their host: Boss Chen from Hong Kong. Skinny, silk suit, prayer-bead bracelet made of dark, oily agarwood that somehow fit right in with the European leather and crystal. Dude looked like he could buy the casino downstairs with the change in his couch.
"Kid, you scared the hell outta people tonight. Real pride for us ," Chen said in smooth Mandarin, voice low but carrying like he owned every decibel in the room. He raised his glass. "We scratch and claw on other people's turf. Most of our kids top out as engineers, analysts: fancy wage slaves. Make a million, Uncle Sam takes half. Ceiling's right there, glass you can see and touch but never break. Guys like you who actually kick the door down and sit at the head of the table? One in ten million. Respect."
Victor clinked his glass, took a sip that burned his raw throat. "Boss Chen, flattery's nice, but I'm sure you didn't drag me up here just to toast and tell me I'm pretty. Cut to it."
Chen laughed softly, leaned back into the sofa like a cat. "Straight to business. I like that. I'm just a businessman who sees a bright future. Your next two fights: James Smith, Tony Tucker. I want them here in Vegas, in my building. Two hundred grand a fight. After taxes."
Michael's eyes flashed: that's insane money for a new champ who hasn't even unified the belts yet, especially against two tough but not exactly pay-per-view kings.
Victor didn't blink, just frowned a little. "I appreciate the generosity, but I'm a straight shooter. Me, Smith, and Tucker right now? We don't move the needle hard enough to justify that kind of cash. You're a businessman. How do you make money on that deal? I don't see the math."
Chen threw his head back and roared with laughter like Victor just told the joke of the century.
He clapped once. An assistant slid a fat stack of newspapers and magazines across the coffee table.
Victor looked down and froze.
Front pages and sports sections from all over Asia: Nanyang Siang Pau, Sing Tao Daily, Asahi Shimbun, Chosun Ilbo, World Journal, Philippine Star, Bangkok Post… He couldn't read most of them, but he didn't need to. His face was plastered everywhere: mid-punch, roaring after dropping Razor Ruddock, gloves gleaming under the lights.
Chen tapped a Hong Kong paper. "There's been plenty of world champs: black, white, whatever. Heavyweight division? Never once has a yellow face stood at the top and stayed there. Kid, you have no idea what 'heavyweight champion' means back home."
He swept his hand across the table. "Hong Kong, Taiwan, Macau: you're the new hero. Singapore, Malaysia, every Chinatown from Jakarta to Manila: your name's on every lip. Korea, Japan, Vietnam, Thailand: anywhere culture ever touched, the second you beat Fury it's front-page news. And real Mike Tyson's still on the shelf nursing injuries, so nobody even remembers that one loss!"
Chen leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You see all those Asian faces cageside tonight? I counted at least two hundred came from out of state, Canada, even South America: just to watch one of us stand tall. Your market isn't just Chicago or America anymore. It's a billion-people market that's starving for this. Our people back home go nuts for some third-rate kickboxing champ. You give them a legit heavyweight king? The sky's the limit."
He locked eyes with Victor. "Two hundred large a fight isn't charity. It's an investment. I want the next three in my casino. And…" he finally showed his cards, "I want a piece of what you've got cooking in Chicago."
The room went dead still.
Ethan, Michael, and Frankie all turned to stone.
Victor swirled the whiskey, watching the legs run down the glass, saying nothing for a long beat.
Now it made sense: the drinks, the compliments, the fat site fees. This wasn't just sponsorship. This was Vegas power reaching out to Chicago power, looking for an alliance.
Boss Chen didn't just want a piece of the next champ; he wanted a piece of Victor Lee, Chicago shot-caller.
Accept? Instant rocket fuel: money, bigger stage, deeper reach.
Reject? Slam the door on one of the biggest players in Vegas and probably piss off half the overseas money that just started flowing his way.
Victor finally set the glass down and smiled: part fighter, part businessman, all shark.
"Boss Chen, you don't disappoint. Sharp eyes, sharper offer. Having you in my corner for these next fights would be huge. Pleasure doing business."
Chen grinned, already raising his glass.
Victor kept talking. "But the Chicago stuff? That only exists because certain congressmen and senators looked the other way. It's complicated, deep roots. Can't just slice off a piece overnight. I say we start small, clean, and public: build trust, make some money together, then talk bigger things."
Chen's smile cooled a few degrees. "I'm listening."
"I've got a dessert-and-fast-food chain rolling out nationwide called Snow Honey Windy City: SHW. sweets, milk tea, fried chicken, whatever. Doing real well. You pay a fair franchise fee, you can open SHW locations here in Vegas or anywhere your reach goes. Profit split is negotiable. Totally legit, fast cash flow, washes clean. Good first date. What do you say?"
Chen's face said it all: disappointed. Desserts weren't what he came for.
The vibe in the room chilled.
He exhaled through his nose. "I know the chain. Solid little side hustle, good for placing people. But… maybe a little small-time for what we're talking about?"
Victor just gave a half-smirk and nodded to Ethan.
Ethan, stone-faced, pulled a brushed-metal cigarette case from his jacket, took out a fat, hand-rolled joint: shorter and thicker than a regular smoke, and handed it to Chen.
Chen raised an eyebrow. "This is…?"
"One of SHW's 'special menu items,'" Victor said, voice dropping. "Give it a try. Might open up some new perspectives on scale."
Chen sniffed it, eyes widening instantly. He knew top-shelf when he smelled it.
His assistant lit it for him.
Chen took a long, slow pull, held it, eyes half-closed, then let it out in a fragrant cloud that didn't smell like any weed you copped on the corner.
Another hit. Then another.
Three minutes later his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, grin spreading like a kid on Christmas.
"Jesus Christ. That's clean, fat body high, no paranoia. This shit would have the white boys in my casino lined up around the block!"
Victor just smiled. Hook set.
"So, Boss Chen," he said, raising his glass again, "we'll start with the SHW franchises: sunshine business, everybody eats. And this little 'special product'? We'll talk exclusive distribution nice and slow. Welcome to the family."
Chen barked out a laugh, all the tension gone, clinked his glass so hard whiskey sloshed over the rim.
"To partnership! To money! To finally running shit!"
Crystal rang in the smoky air.
Somewhere between the scotch and the weed, an alliance stretching from Chicago to Vegas to half of Asia was born.