Chicago autumn crashes in like a linebacker—fast and brutal. Victor Lee bundles up in that secondhand jacket he's been rocking for five straight days, trudging through the snow toward his rundown apartment on West Street in the South Side.
Top-floor spot's got its perks: cool in summer, toasty in winter.
The wind slices his cheeks like a switchblade. At 380 pounds, Victor's boots carve deep tracks in the snow—he's gotta drop some weight, and he's already following that nutrition mag's advice.
"Victor! Rent's due in two days. You renewing or what? If not, it's going to someone else!"
Landlady Mrs. Morris calls out from her first-floor window, her hawk eyes peering over her bifocals, locked on him.
Victor digs out the crumpled bills from his pocket, counts off fifty bucks, and hands 'em over.
"Sorry, Mrs. Morris, slipped my mind. I'll renew for another month."
"Minimum six months."
Victor peels off another two-fifty.
Mrs. Morris snatches the cash, eyeing this massive Asian kid like he's trouble on legs.
"Better find steady work, Lee. We don't tolerate drama in this building."
"Mrs. Morris, I'm not looking for trouble. This three-day thing? Just a business trip."
"Business trip?"
She snorts. " you folks sure got a fancy way with words. Even jail time sounds polite coming from you."
"See ya."
Victor hauls his beat-up body up the creaky stairs, ignoring the old racist—lady still thinks Black folks are rude, whites are savages, and Native Americans got shiny scalps.
His room's on the sixth floor—no elevator. For his overweight ass, it's basically a workout.
The place is tiny and bare-bones: two pallets, a mattress, and a wobbly table. That's it.
Victor crashes onto the bed; the mattress groans like it's about to quit.
He stares at the water-stained ceiling, wind howling outside, running through boxing combos in his head. Then he pulls out the DVD—shit, no TV in here.
'Heavyweight Champ' burns in his brain.
He pats his gut, flashes back to those fights he binged, the champs in their glory, and Coach Zhao's cut: Ali pulling ten mil a pop.
"Maybe..."
Victor bolts upright, idea sparking. "Maybe boxing's my ticket out!"
Next day, he skips the job center.
Spends the whole damn day at the library, devouring boxing books, popping in classic fight DVDs on their player.
Those slick footwork moves, laser-sharp punches—they hook him. But it's that fire in the fighters' eyes that really grabs him.
'Counterpunch Defense'
Victor scribbles it in his notebook—his motto after studying every legend:
Save energy, spot the flaw, end it with a haymaker.
Third morning, Victor's planted outside Foucault's Gym.
Old-school joint on the edge of the hood, faded posters out front, but the thuds and yells inside scream it's still pumping out pros.
Pushes the door—bam, sweat, leather, and bleach hit him like a combo.
Inside: about a hundred guys. Some pounding bags, others skipping rope, a few scrapping hard in the ring.
Victor's entrance? Everyone freezes. Curious stares, smirks at his massive frame.
"Hey, look—a bear wandered into the wrong den!"
Some punk with a green mohawk yells it, cracking up.
Victor's face goes beet red, but he doesn't bail. Heads straight to the bald dude at the counter. "I wanna learn boxing."
Guy sizes him up, blows a smoke ring. "Fifty bucks a month, gear extra. Name's Foucault—owner."
Victor counts out a crumpled hundred-fifty. "Week's fee plus basics."
Foucault raises an eyebrow, grabs the cash, fishes out beat-up used gloves, mouthguard, wraps from under the counter.
"Locker room's over there. Bring your own soap if you wanna rinse off, rookie."
In the locker room, Victor wrestles into workout gear. Those XL gloves still pinch his tree-trunk arms.
Back in the gym? Laughter erupts.
"Hey, fatty—you sure this ain't sumo tryouts?"
"Watch out, don't collapse the ring!"
Victor's ears burn, but he shuts it out, shuffles to an empty bag in the corner, runs through basic stance from the videos.
Throws a punch—bag thumps heavy, swings back hard.
"Wrist straight, dummy."
Gruff voice behind him.
Victor turns: sixty-something Black dude, scarred face, crooked nose—total ex-fighter vibe.
"Like this."
Old man demos a perfect jab—thud, bag barely sways. "Power stays focused. I'm Old Jack—twenty bucks for seven lessons."
Next two hours, Jack tweaks every move Victor botches.
"Boxing starts in the feet, kid. Power from the ground, up through the hips to the fist."
He slaps Victor's legs and gut. "Core's your real weapon—not those flabby arms. Spot a guy with a weak waist? Pound him. Guts can't take two shots."
Training wraps; Victor's soaked, muscles screaming, but damn, it feels good.
He clocks the mohawk kid—'Rooster'—smoking some dude in the main ring, moves like lightning.
"Who's that?"
Victor whispers to Jack, who's packing up.
"Reggie Williams, light-heavy prospect. Our golden boy."
Jack snorts. "Skills? Sharp. Feet? Quick. Power? Solid. But character's rotten as week-old bananas—looks good, stinks inside."
Victor nods, files it away.
Jack eyes him. "You got a thing against Black folks?"
Tough question.
Victor's got the right answer locked: "Rainbows are beautiful 'cause they got every color. Plus, us Third World brothers helped get the UN seat back."
"Pretty words."
Jack nods at Foucault, who's watching. "If you're a racist, we can't have you messing with Reggie—he's our cash cow."
Victor grins easy—skips telling him the rainbow's got no black.
On the walk home, he loads up on chicken breasts and eggs at the discount store, drops serious coin on whey protein at the sports shop.
That night, notebooks his first-day notes, maps out meals and workouts.
Days blur into a grind—brutal, routine.
Up at 5 a.m. for five-mile power walks.
Rooftop mornings: footwork and combos.
Afternoons: gym with Jack drilling basics.
Nights: strict eats, heavy lifts. Victor figures his fast recovery turns DOMS into next-day fresh.
Science mags say it'll melt the weight—works for him.
Forward step, back pivot, side shuffle...
Victor mutters it like a mantra, drilling in the corner, ignoring the jeers.
Weight drops slow—half a pound a day. Nobody notices but him: love handles firming up.
Muscles? Starting to own the moves.
Day seven: Victor finishes a combo set. Spots Jack whispering with a slick suit guy, pointing his way.
"Victor! Over here!"
Jack waves. "Meet Marty Coleman—boxing agent."
Coleman scopes him head to toe. "380? Moves like a glacier. But..."
Squeezes Victor's arm. "Decent muscle base, big frame. Drop 50 pounds? Might have something."
Victor's pulse races. "You think I've got potential?"
"Potential?"
Coleman laughs. "Kid, you ain't even earned that word yet. But Jack says you grind hard—rare these days."
Slides over a card. "Hit 320, then talk."
That night, Victor stares at the card forever, tucks it in his wallet. Decides to scout the South Side tough-guy tourney for a shot.
Next day? Doubles down on lifts.
Day ten afternoon: Victor's shuffling left-right jabs when a whistle shrieks.
"Hey, fat boy!"
Rooster Reggie leans on the ropes, crooking a finger. "Spar? Hundred bucks if you last three rounds."
Gym goes dead quiet. All eyes on Victor.
Jack steps up, frowning. "Reggie, he's green."
"What, tubby? Scared?"
Reggie waves a Benjamin. "Call it fat-burning incentive."
Blood rushes to Victor's head, but he chills.
Looks to Jack—subtle head shake. "Weight classes matter, kid. Victor's heavyweight. You're light-heavy."
Rooster laughs. "You think he beats me?"
Jack turns to Victor.
But Victor flashes to the vids—greats all started fight one.
"Rules?"
Victor asks cool.
Reggie grins, gold tooth flashing. "Amateur: headgear, 16-oz gloves, three rounds, two minutes each. No crying for mama, you win."
Foucault refs, checks gear. "No killing."
Aimed square at Reggie.
Victor's first step onto the canvas? Lights blind him, dizzy spell hits.
Crowd—half the gym packed the ropes—roars from a million miles away.