Year: 2017
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The Detroit Theater was not the Riocentro Pavilion. It held two thousand souls, not twenty thousand, and the air smelled of old velvet, popcorn, and the sharp tang of liniment instead of global-scale ambition. But as Kyon stood in the narrow, cinder-block dressing room, the pressure felt just as immense, just different. It wasn't the weight of a nation; it was the weight of a city, a brand, and a newly minted professional reputation. The sold-out sign out front wasn't for an Olympic final; it was for him. His pro debut. The Phantom's first act.
Thorne finished wrapping his hands with a meticulous, silent focus. The ritual was the same, but the gloves waiting on the table were different. Sleek, black leather, 10-ounce professional gloves. They looked smaller, more lethal, than the 16-ounce pillows of the amateurs. Frank Sterling had insisted on them, wanting Kyon to get used to the professional feel from day one.
"Remember," Thorne said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "It's not three rounds. It's six, twos and a half minutes each. Pace is everything. Mendoza is a pro. He knows how to survive, how to steal rounds with activity. You can't just outclass him for three and cruise. You have to dominate for eighteen minutes."
Kyon nodded, his eyes closed, visualizing. He saw Javier "El Relámpago" Mendoza's tape: the high guard, the persistent forward march, the decent but not spectacular power. He saw the tell The Professor had pointed out—the slight cocking of the right hand before he threw it, a tiny telegraph that left him unable to jab for a split-second. That was the key. That was the crack in the professional armor.
Hayes popped his head in, his face flushed with excitement. "Place is electric, Kyon! The Phantom gear is everywhere. We're trending locally. This is the perfect launch." He disappeared before Thorne could growl at him.
A USA Boxing official turned Sterling Promotions coordinator knocked. "Fifteen minutes, Kyon."
He put on the black robe with the minimalist PHANTOM logo over his simple black trunks. No stars and stripes. This was a different uniform. He touched the necklace—the Olympic rings intertwined with the phantom silhouette. The river stone was in his pocket. Solid. Real.
The walk to the ring was short, through a curtain and up three steps. The roar that hit him was familiar yet intimate—a Detroit roar, full of pride and gritty expectation. He saw faces he recognized in the front rows: Miguel, Big Ben, Mrs. Gable, even a few old teachers from Harrison High who probably never knew his name before. He kept his hood up, his eyes on the canvas.
Mendoza was already in the ring, a compact, muscular figure with a thick mustache and a serious expression. He bounced on his toes, looking every bit the seasoned professional. He wasn't here to be a stepping stone; he was here to spoil the party, to hand the golden boy his first loss and boost his own career.
The referee, a grizzled local veteran named Joe Cortez, called them to the center. "I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times. Listen to my commands. Touch gloves."
Mendoza's eyes were hard, assessing. He touched gloves and immediately turned his back, a small psychological ploy. Kyon felt nothing. He was already in the calm, observing state. The Phantom was present.
The bell for Round 1.
Kyon came out circling to his left, away from Mendoza's power right hand. He flicked out his jab. It was different. Sharper, faster, with more intent. It popped against Mendoza's high guard. Pop. Pop.
Mendoza advanced behind his own jab, a stiffer, slower punch. Kyon parried it easily, using the new "catch-and-pivot" technique, deflecting the punch and taking a slight angle. He fired a straight right that landed on Mendoza's shoulder.
So far, so good. He was establishing range, using his footwork. He saw the tell. Mendoza, trying to close distance, pulled his right hand back slightly near his ear, loading up.
Now.
Kyon stepped forward, not away. He threw a double jab. The first one snapped Mendoza's head back, the second landed as Mendoza was reacting. Then, as Mendoza's loaded right hand was still cocked, Kyon fired a straight right of his own down the center line. It landed flush on Mendoza's nose.
Crack.
A perfect execution of The Professor's lesson. Professional exploitation.
Mendoza's head snapped back violently. A trickle of blood immediately appeared from his left nostril. He blinked, stunned, and took an involuntary step back. The crowd roared.
Kyon felt a surge of validation. The new tools worked. He pressed, throwing a combination to the body. Mendoza covered up, shelling against the ropes for a moment before clinching.
In the clinch, Kyon applied the new techniques. He framed with his forearms, creating space, then used a subtle foot placement to trip Mendoza's balance, all while landing two short, digging uppercuts to the ribs that the referee couldn't see. Dirty, beautiful science.
The round ended with Kyon landing several more clean shots. A clear 10-9.
In the corner, Thorne was pleased but focused. "Good. You hurt him. But he's tough. He'll adjust. He's going to try to pressure you more, make it messy. Keep using your feet. Don't let him trap you."
Round 2. Mendoza came out with more urgency, as predicted. He started throwing more punches, trying to overwhelm Kyon with volume. He was also fighting dirtier—using his head in the clinch, holding Kyon's left arm, leaning with his weight.
Kyon handled it well, using the Phantom Slip to make Mendoza miss by wider margins, conserving energy. He continued to land the sharper, cleaner shots. But he was also learning a professional lesson: activity matters. Mendoza, even while missing or being blocked, was throwing punches. In the close rounds, that could sway judges.
Midway through the round, Kyon slipped a jab and countered with a beautiful left hook to the body. Mendoza grunted. Kyon moved to follow up, but Mendoza, in pain and frustration, lunged forward and wrapped Kyon in a tight, leaning clinch. As the referee moved to break them, Mendoza, in a move of veteran guile, brought his head up hard under Kyon's chin.
It wasn't a headbutt, but a nasty, legal-ish upward jerk of the skull. Kyon's teeth clacked together, his neck jolted. He saw stars for a second.
The referee missed it, seeing only a tangle.
Mendoza smiled a bloody smile as they were separated. Welcome to the pros.
Kyon shook it off, anger flashing. He wanted to fire back, to brawl. But he heard The Professor's whisper in his memory: "Anger is a tax you pay to your opponent." He took a breath, reset. For the rest of the round, he boxed smarter, making Mendoza pay for every clumsy advance with sharp counters. But the message was received: this was a different game.
Round 3. Kyon began to pull away. His superior speed, technique, and now-calibrated distance control were too much. He started landing his right hand at will, either as a straight punch down the middle or as a hook over Mendoza's low guard. He used feints to freeze Mendoza, then attacked the body. A minute into the round, a crisp one-two snapped Mendoza's head back and opened a cut over his right eye.
The crowd chanted "PHAN-TOM! PHAN-TOM!" as Kyon boxed a near-perfect round, showcasing his Olympic pedigree and new professional savvy. He was up three rounds to none.
Round 4. Mendoza, knowing he was far behind, became desperate. He abandoned any pretense of technique and charged forward, swinging wild, looping hooks, trying to land a lucky bomb.
This was exactly what Kyon had trained for with Thorne. Instead of backing up in a straight line, he used lateral movement and angles, making Mendoza spin and reset. He'd make Mendoza miss by a foot, then step in and land two or three punishing shots before gliding away. It was hit-and-run, professional edition.
With thirty seconds left in the round, Mendoza, exhausted and frustrated, threw a wild, telegraphed right hand. Kyon saw it from a mile away. He pulled back, letting it sail harmlessly past, and as Mendoza's momentum carried him forward, off-balance, Kyon planted his feet and threw a counter left hook.
It was a thing of beauty. It started at his feet, traveled up his legs, coiled through his torso, and exploded from his shoulder. It connected on the point of Mendoza's chin with a sickening, wet thwack that could be heard in the back row.
Mendoza's eyes glazed over. His legs turned to liquid. He crashed to the canvas in a heap, his head bouncing once.
The arena exploded.
The referee began the count. Mendoza stirred at four, rolled onto his hands and knees at six, but his eyes were vacant. He made it to one knee at eight, but he was a beaten man. The referee reached ten.
Knockout. Round 4.
The official debut of Kyon "The Phantom" Wilson was a resounding success. A dominant performance capped by a devastating, highlight-reel knockout. He had shown everything: skill, patience, adaptability, and fight-ending power.
The post-fight celebration in the ring was jubilant. Hayes was ecstatic. Sterling, ringside, gave a satisfied nod. Thorne hugged him, a rare display of pure emotion. "You did it, kid. You looked like a pro."
The locker room was a swirl of congratulations. Media filtered in for quick interviews. Kyon gave polite, clipped answers, his mind already processing the fight. The knockout was satisfying, but he was thinking about the head-jerk in the second round, the constant pressure, the difference in pace. He had won, but he had also been introduced to the gritty, physical reality of the professional trenches.
The next morning, the reviews were glowing. "Phantom Makes Spirited Pro Debut!" "Gold Medalist Passes First Test with Flying Colors!" The knockout clip was everywhere. Hayes's phone buzzed non-stop with increased endorsement interest.
But one piece, from a respected boxing writer on a niche website, caught Kyon's eye. The headline: "The Phantom's Promise, and the Proving Ground Ahead." It praised his skills but ended with a cautionary note: "Wilson dazzled against a durable but limited opponent. The true test of his 'Phantom' style will come when he faces a professional with equal or greater athleticism, one who can cut off the ring with purpose and won't be frozen by his feints. The knockout was spectacular, but he was also tagged cleanly more than once by a fighter not known for his speed or power. The 10-ounce gloves give and take away. The road to a title is paved with men who can take a better punch than Javier Mendoza."
It was a sobering counterpoint to the hype. Thorne saw him reading it. "They're not wrong," he said, handing Kyon a protein shake. "You got hit. With those small gloves, against a bigger puncher, those shots add up. The defense has to be airtight. Not 95%. 100%."
The victory bought a brief period of celebration, but the grind resumed immediately. Sterling's matchmaker had the next fight planned for three months later, in August. The opponent: Ricardo "El Toro" Vargas, a rising Colombian prospect with a record of 15-1, 12 KOs. A significant step up. Vargas was younger, faster, and a much bigger puncher than Mendoza. He was also a vicious body puncher.
"This is the real test," Sterling said over the phone, his voice crackly. "Vargas is hungry. He sees you as his ticket. He'll come to take your head off. This is where we see what you're made of."
The training camp for Vargas was more intense, more specific. The Professor came more often, drilling Kyon on defending against relentless body attack—using his elbows, forearms, and footwork to deflect and diffuse the crushing hooks to the ribs and liver. They studied Vargas's tapes. He was a front-foot bully, but he had a tendency to drop his right hand when he threw his left hook to the body. Another tell, another crack.
The fight was at a larger venue, an arena in Chicago. The stakes were higher. A win would propel Kyon into the top 15 rankings of one of the sanctioning bodies. A loss would be a devastating setback.
The night of the fight, Kyon felt ready. The Mendoza fight had been a lesson; this would be an exam.
Round 1 was a firefight. Vargas lived up to his nickname, charging forward behind a high guard, throwing thunderous hooks to the body from the opening bell. The thud of his gloves on Kyon's arms and ribs was alarming. Kyon used his movement, circling, trying to establish his jab. He landed some good shots, but Vargas walked through them, his eyes gleaming with aggression.
A minute in, Vargas trapped Kyon on the ropes and unleashed a barrage. A left hook to the body slipped through Kyon's guard. It felt like being stabbed with a hot poker. Kyon gasped, his legs buckling for a split second. He clinched desperately, buying time.
He survived the round, but it was Vargas's round. The crowd was on its feet.
Round 2. Kyon adjusted. He started using his feet more, making Vargas turn. He found success with his straight right hand, landing it cleanly several times. But Vargas was undeterred. He was a professional pressure fighter, and he was good at it. He cut the ring off better than Mendoza, using subtle feints to herd Kyon.
Late in the round, Kyon saw the tell. Vargas dropped his right hand to throw his signature left hook to the body. Kyon reacted instantly, throwing a right hand over the top, aiming for the exposed chin.
But Vargas was a step ahead. The tell was a half-feint. As Kyon committed to the right hand, Vargas pulled his body hook and instead threw a sweeping right hook of his own, over Kyon's extended left arm.
It was a perfect, brutal counter.
The punch landed on Kyon's temple with the force of a baseball bat.
The world dissolved into a silent, white explosion. Kyon's legs vanished. He fell sideways, crashing into the canvas, his head bouncing with a sickening thud.
Knockdown.
The count began. "ONE… TWO…"
The noise of the crowd was a distant ocean roar. Kyon was on another planet. The white void was familiar. The cold canvas was familiar.
"THREE… FOUR…"
But this was different. This wasn't the Olympics. This wasn't for a gold medal. This was his second professional fight. This was Ricardo Vargas. This was the proving ground.
"FIVE… SIX…"
A cold, clear thought cut through the fog. Get up. You have to get up. This is where they find out who you are.
"SEVEN…"
He pushed. He rolled onto his stomach, then shoved himself to his knees.
"EIGHT…"
He made it to his feet, swaying like a drunkard, grabbing the ropes for support. His vision was blurred, his equilibrium shot. But he was up.
The referee looked into his eyes, wiped his gloves, and let the fight continue. Vargas, smelling a finish, surged forward.
Kyon was in pure survival mode. The Phantom vanished. The technician vanished. What remained was the raw, battered core of Kyon Wilson. He covered up, shelled against the ropes, absorbed punches, and clinched for dear life. He ate shots that, in the amateurs, would have stopped the fight. But this was the pros. The referee let it go, watching closely.
Somehow, Kyon survived the final minute of the round, a human punching bag clinging to consciousness by his fingernails. The bell was a heavenly sound.
He stumbled to his corner, collapsing onto the stool. Thorne and The Professor were in his face instantly. Ammonia salts. Cold water. Urgent voices.
"Look at me! Kyon! Breathe! You're still in this! He's tired! You hurt him before he caught you!"
Kyon's head was a bell that had been rung too hard. He couldn't think. He could only feel the throbbing in his temple and the screaming pain in his ribs where Vargas's body shots had landed.
"You have one round to turn this around," Thorne said, his voice cutting through the haze. "You have to fight back. You have to make him respect you. Throw your damn hands! Don't just survive!"
The bell for Round 3.
Kyon came out, his legs still unsteady. Vargas, confident and hungry, pressed forward to finish the job.
But Kyon had been here before. In deeper holes, against worse monsters. The survival instinct, honed in an alley and tempered in Olympic wars, kicked in. He didn't try to be pretty. He fought.
He met Vargas's aggression with his own. He threw punches back, wilder than usual, but with bad intentions. He ignored the pain, ignored the dizziness. He focused on one thing: hitting Vargas harder than Vargas was hitting him.
It became a brutal, sloppy war in the center of the ring. They traded hooks, ate each other's best shots. Kyon's face was a mask of blood from his nose and a new cut on his cheek. Vargas was bleeding from his mouth.
With a minute left, both men exhausted, Kyon saw an opening. Vargas, breathing heavily, dropped his hands for a fraction of a second after missing a hook.
Kyon threw a desperate, all-or-nothing right uppercut. It wasn't textbook. It was thrown from his heels with every ounce of strength and will he had left.
It connected under Vargas's chin.
Vargas's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up. He stumbled backwards, his legs gone, and collapsed onto the canvas, out cold.
The referee didn't bother to count. He waved it off.
Knockout. Round 3.
The comeback was complete. The arena erupted in disbelief and awe.
Kyon stood over Vargas, his own body screaming in protest, his vision swimming. He had done it. He had gotten up from a knockdown that would have ended most fighters' nights and found a way to win. He had shown heart, resilience, and that intangible "X-factor" that separated contenders from pretenders.
But as his hand was raised, as the crowd chanted his name, Kyon felt no elation. Only a profound, bone-deep weariness and a chilling realization.
The writer had been right. He had been hit. He had been hurt. He had been knocked down. In just his second pro fight. The 10-ounce gloves were a great equalizer. The professional reality was this: every fight was a potential war. Every opponent had the power to change your life with one punch. The Phantom's aura of invincibility had been pierced.
He had won. He was 2-0 with 2 knockouts. He was on his way.
But lying in the quiet of the Chicago locker room later, his body a tapestry of fresh pain, Kyon Wilson understood the true cost of the journey he had chosen. The road to the greatest of all time was not a path of elusive brilliance. It was a gauntlet of violence, where every victory was bought with a piece of your soul and your health. The phantom had survived another night. But the man was starting to tally the receipts.