Victor hung up the phone and stood alone in the middle of the empty gym. For the first time in a long time, the silence felt heavy.
Max was too smart for her own good.
And too damn dark about it.
Real courage isn't pretending the world's all sunshine. It's seeing every ugly corner of it and still deciding to light a torch anyway. Most people manage that, even if their reasons are messy and half-broken.
Max couldn't. Life hit her once too hard and she never got back up.
Victor walked over to the ring and ran his glove along the ropes.
Whatever storm Max was lost in, that was hers to carry. His job was simple: win tomorrow, keep climbing, stack enough money and clout that nobody could ever touch the people he loved again. Everything else came after the final bell.
On the canvas, it always boils down to the oldest rule in the book: who's still standing when the other guy isn't.
He slipped his gloves back on and went back to murdering the heavy bag.
…
August 10th, Las Vegas. The air around the MGM Grand Garden Arena felt thick enough to chew, like the whole desert was holding its breath.
Weigh-in that afternoon had already been a powder keg.
James "Bonecrusher" Smith dropped the nice-guy act he'd been faking in the promos. He bulled right up into Victor's face, chest to chest, veins popping, spitting venom through clenched teeth: "Tomorrow night, kid, I'm breaking every goddamn bone you got."
Classic mind-game bullshit meant to rattle him before the bell even rang.
Victor just stared back with those frozen eyes, chin tilted up, not giving an inch. Then he shoved Smith off him, calm, hard, silent. The push didn't start a brawl, but it made Smith look like the one who blinked first.
The war was already on.
Now night had fallen, and every light in the city pointed at one square of canvas.
Spotlights turned the ring white-hot, like some ancient altar where only one man walks out with the prize.
Cigar smoke, sweat, booze, and pure animal bloodlust hung in the air. The crowd noise was a living thing, roaring, whistling, cursing, trying to punch holes in your eardrums.
"Ladies and gentlemen… twelve rounds for the heavyweight championship of the world! In the red corner, from Chicago, Illinois… the Mad Tiger… VICTOR… LEEEEEE!"
Victor stepped out in his red robe, stride slow and heavy, eyes cutting through the haze like blades. He scanned the arena once, locked on the ring, and the rest of the world disappeared.
"And in the blue corner… the Bonecrusher… JAMES… SMITH!"
Smith came out looking like a caged gorilla someone just let loose. Pounding his chest, veins in his neck ready to pop, screaming at Victor across the arena and slicing his throat with his thumb.
Two hundred grand riding on the line from the overseas money had turned this from a fight into a public execution.
Ref gave the rules, short and sharp. They met in the center, foreheads damn near touching, eyes locked. You could almost see the sparks.
Ding!
Round one.
The bell barely finished echoing before Smith charged like a runaway freight train, canvas thumping under his feet.
His game plan was caveman simple: use every ounce of his 240-plus pounds, bulldoze inside, and smash until something broke.
Victor barely got set before a right hook the size of a cinder block screamed past his chin, close enough to part his hair and make the front-row suits flinch.
But Victor didn't circle out.
Old Jack's voice from the gym rang in his head: Test him, but never back down. Make this animal respect you.
The second Smith's punch traveled past and his weight shifted, Victor stepped in, not out. He ate the follow-up left on his raised guard, forearms ringing like iron.
And in that half-second window, Victor fired.
Short, vicious right jab, straight as a piston, cracked Smith square on the nose.
CRACK.
Clean, sharp, nothing muffled about it.
Smith's head snapped back an inch, neck muscles soaking up the shock. Dude was a tank; he shook it off and kept coming.
But the look in his eyes changed. Something just got lit.
"Come on, pretty boy! Stop dancing like a bitch!"
He roared and swung a filthy left hook aimed right at Victor's liver, the kind of punch that ends nights and empties stomachs.
Victor read it early, slipped back half a step. The hook grazed his ribs and kept going into thin air.
Victor answered with the exact same right jab, same spot, same CRACK. Like he was ringing a goddamn bell.
Round one played out like that: Smith throwing bombs, trying to bulldoze Victor into dust. Victor a rock in the storm, blocking, slipping, and every time Smith overcommitted, CRACK, another jab tattooed on his face.
Bell rang. Victor walked back to his corner tasting blood and adrenaline.
Old Jack yelling over the noise: "Perfect! Keep boxing his damn head off!"
Victor nodded, breathing hard, eyes already flicking across to the blue corner.
Smith sat there fuming, coach screaming in his ear. He shook his head like a bull, eyes promising murder.
Ding!
Round two.
Smith came out angrier, heavier, trying to cut the ring off and trap Victor on the ropes.
Victor started moving now, using angles, forearms up like armor.
Smith threw heat: right swing, left hook, big, looping, scary power.
Victor slipped and rolled, letting them whistle past his ears by inches.
CRACK.
CRACK.
Right jab, right jab, again and again, snapping Smith's head back, turning his nose red, opening a cut over the eyebrow.
"Quit running, coward!"
Smith was losing his mind, punches getting wilder.
He lunged with a huge right hand, missed by a foot, momentum carrying him forward.
There it was.
Victor's eyes flashed.
He dropped his weight and ripped a short, vicious left hook into Smith's liver like he was trying to punch through to his spine.
THUD.
Smith froze mid-step. A strangled grunt leaked out of him, face twisting, body folding forward just enough.
Victor smelled blood in the water.
Combination exploded: right hand to the chin, left swing to the cheek.
Smith's head rocked side to side, guard flying up to protect his face, feet stumbling backward for the first time all night.
The arena lost its mind.
Victor felt the heat rush to his skull.
Finish him!
He stepped in heavy, ready to empty the clip.
But the second he committed, Smith, that tough son of a bitch, fired back on pure instinct.
Blind, hurt, and pissed off, he threw a desperate uppercut from hell, low to high, like he wanted both of them to go out on a stretcher.
Victor's punch sailed over Smith's head.
The uppercut crashed into his guard and kept going, clipping his chin.
BOOM.
Whole world flashed white for half a second.
Not a knockout, but enough to rattle teeth and kill momentum. Victor hopped back, head cleared, heart hammering.
Smith stood there breathing like a blown bull, pain still in his eyes but crazy fire on top of it.
Victor's stomach dropped a little.
He'd gotten greedy. Almost paid for it.
One moment of trying to be a hero and a guy like Bonecrusher will happily take your head off on the way down.
The anger lasted half a heartbeat.
Then the ice came back.
Victor reset his feet, lifted his guard, and stared across the ring with that same dead-calm look.
Round wasn't over yet.
Neither was the war.