Sweat dripped off Victor's chin, splashing dark blooms on the training mat.
He was doubled over, hands on knees, chest burning like it was on fire.
"Two-minute breather."
Old Jack's voice stayed flat as the timer clicked.
Victor straightened and glanced at the corner of the gym.
A Motorola sat there.
Three weeks now—Max had vanished like a ghost. Phone dead, apartment empty, nothing from the University of Tennessee either.
"Don't zone out."
Ethan wiped Victor's back with a towel. "Smith ain't giving you daydream breaks."
James Smith.
The guy's fight tape flashed in Victor's head.
Smith wasn't the slickest technician, but his stamina and bombs were nightmare fuel. Nicknamed the Bonecrusher for a reason. Height: 6'4" (193 cm), Weight: ~230 lbs (104 kg), Reach: 84" (213 cm), Record: 24-7-1 (22 KOs).
Former WBA world heavyweight champ.
"He's a killer whale in the waves—always waiting, then boom, one-shot kill!"
Frankie had broken it down the night before. "But he hates change. Rhythm shifts, angle switches—he gets lost."
James Smith was your classic power bomber, one-punch finisher. His game plan? Overwhelm with raw force.
That right uppercut was his signature—fight-ender, bone-shatterer.
With his size and reach, he controlled distance like a bouncer at the door back in the early '80s heavies.
But speed? Agility? Combo flow? Not his thing. He hunted single big shots.
Right now, Victor was drilling counters just for him.
Old Jack built a custom defense package—diffuse Smith's chains.
Michael tweaked diet and conditioning.
Ethan, the brother-in-training, kept Victor's head straight—even though Max's disappearance made that damn near impossible.
"Time."
Old Jack called. "Footwork drill. Remember—hard blocking has rules. Use the tough spots, not your head or chin. Guide the force."
Victor nodded, mouthguard in.
His sparring partner—160 pounds lighter—was mimicking Smith's pressure style.
Bell rang, and the big shadow loomed.
Left hook, right cross, left hook, right cross.
Storm of leather.
Victor followed Jack's playbook—no more trading bombs like with Fury. Forearms up, feet sliding, deflecting, redirecting.
"No backing up! Slip! Circle!"
Jack barked from ringside. "Picture a gang jump—stay sharp!"
Victor replayed Frankie's words: Every punch has a chain—feet to hips to shoulders. Break the chain, break the power.
Next heavy shot came—Victor didn't block, just angled his body, gave it a nudge with the right hand.
Sparring partner stumbled forward.
Now!
Short uppercut to the gut, then quick slide sideways.
"Beautiful!"
Frankie yelled. "Just like that!"
But Victor's mind drifted to Max again.
Last call—back in May. Max had sounded wrecked: "Victor, good luck out there."
Victor was laser-focused on Fury prep, didn't dig deeper.
Now? That tone wasn't just low—it was regret, pure and heavy.
"You're drifting again!"
Jack's voice snapped him back. "One second on the canvas means lights out!"
Next two hours: speed bag for hand-eye, heavy bag for punch endurance, jump rope for footwork.
Every drill laser-targeted Smith's holes.
Toughest? "Deep water"—last ten minutes nonstop punching, simulating late-round exhaustion.
When Frankie finally yelled stop, Victor collapsed flat, heart jackhammering like it wanted out.
"That's Smith's edge," Frankie said. "He's still throwing heat in round ten like round one. You gotta outlast him."
Evening, post-training, Victor tried Max's number again.
Nothing.
He hit up contacts at Tennessee—nobody knew a thing. No record of a Max Black.
Unease crawled under his skin.
"She'll be fine."
Ethan handed him a protein shake. "She ain't no fancy eagle—she's a sparrow. Survives winter just fine."
Victor didn't reply.
That night, he dreamed he was in the ring against Smith—but the ref was Max Black.
Max opened her mouth like she was saying something, but no sound came out.
Smith's bombs landed over and over while Max just watched, blank-faced.
Victor jolted awake, soaked in cold sweat.
3 a.m.
Couldn't sleep. Got up, fired up Smith's fight footage.
On screen, Smith dropped another guy with his signature body shot–right uppercut combo.
Victor rewound, froze frames—then spotted it:
Every time before the combo, Smith's left foot turned out just a hair. Tiny. Almost invisible. But there.
He scribbled it down—Ethan caught the note next morning, turned it into a full counter plan. Victor's all-nighter? Wasted.
He felt a pang of defeat.
Beating Fury proved he could take punishment and fire back—but Frankie and Ethan's tactics were the real MVP.
Next morning, Victor hit the gym early—Jack and Frankie were already waiting, faces grim.
"I'm lining up the next one, so notes are yours."
Victor took the notebook—pages packed with stats, charts, breakdowns of every Smith fight.
Last pages: habit triggers, fatigue signs, recovery patterns, even psych reads.
"You mentioned 'hidden patterns,'" Victor said, pointing to a coded line. "What's that mean?"
Frankie shook his head. "Not sure yet. But I know Smith's power won't top yours—so maybe go aggressive."
Training shifted hard on the notes.
Key find: Smith had a blink of fatigue after round seven—0.5-second lag in guard.
Barely there. But real.
"Like a door cracking open for half a second."
Ethan whistled. "How'd Frankie catch that?"
Victor smiled. "That's old-school coaching. Guy's got a gift."
As fight day loomed, training hit peak brutality.
Full game plan: rounds 1-2 mobile defense, bleed his gas; round 3 pressure; round 4 all-out.
But Max's silence hung like fog.
Friday, ten days out—final live spar.
Partner went full Smith, heavy on body work.
Round 3, a shot slipped through—crushed Victor's ribs.
Pain exploded. He staggered, but fired back—dropped the guy.
"Stop!"
Jack rushed in.
Victor waved it off, but the hurt was real.
Frankie's note flashed: Smith smells blood. Finds the wound, hammers it.
"Call it," Jack said, eyeing the downed spar. "No more today."
Victor stood. "Nah. Keep going. I need to learn this."
"I said him, not you."
Jack stared. "You're wound tight. Punching harder, sparring's drying up. Ray won't train with you anymore. Only guy left is that 420-pound cream puff from Lowell."
Victor thought. "Actually… that's not a bad idea."
Training resumed. Victor leaned hard into Frankie's playbook.
Rib throbbing, he forced movement—angles, distance to shield the injury, eyes hunting counters.
That's when it clicked—what Frankie meant by patterns.
Not just technique. Pain. Fear. Chaos. How you respond.
Everyone's got a pattern. Elite fighters? They break theirs, build stronger ones.
Post-session, ribs black and blue.
Michael iced him, grumbling: "Why not just cut the pain nerves? I swear you'd hit five times harder!"
That night, Victor stayed late, shadowboxing in the mirror.
Studying his flinch under impact, hunting fixes.
Frankie's notebook open beside him, one underlined line:
"The strongest fighter has no weakness—or turns weakness into power."
Deep into the night, Victor lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling lights.
August 10 wasn't just a skill test. It was a will breaker.
Smith crushed spirits for a living.
Victor had to prove his was unbreakable.
Phone rang—public payphone.
Victor snatched it: "Max?"
Silence. Then her voice: "Stop looking for me."
"What happened? I can help."
"Nothing, Victor. Was nice knowing you."
"What's that mean?"
"I thought I could have a big future like you. But I'm not you. Haha—I used to say you were cold to the point of cruel. But now? Maybe that's the only way to climb out."
"I can help."
"No need. You're in deep too. You picked boxing because you don't trust your crew, right?"
"You see clear, Max."
"Only 'cause I'm not in the mess. You went to Atlantic City, leaned on the crew when the opportunity hit—needed muscle. Now you feel the squeeze, so you tied up with the Channing family… your crude playbook only had crude moves."
"Got advice?"
"Nope. Don't let them drag you under. Boxing's your road."
"I can still help."
"I know. But I don't need it."