March 20, 1985—Colorado Springs is under a gloomy gray sky, but the whole town's finally awake.
Lines are already wrapped around the Olympic Training Center.
The Golden Gloves quarterfinals are going down today, and the air's thick with that electric mix of nerves and hype.
Victor Lee's in the locker room finishing his warm-up.
His muscles gleam under the lights, every one of those 371 pounds moving with heavy, deliberate power.
Gone is the old sloppy fat—now it's all prime cut, marbled muscle that'd run at least a grand a pound on Uncle Bo's scale.
At 6'1", he's not the tallest heavyweight in the Golden Gloves, but 55-centimeter-wide shoulders and a neck so thick his head looks tiny scream intimidation. The dude hangs 77 pounds off his skull every day just for neck curls—he's dead serious about that tree-trunk neck.
"First fight's done. Garcia and Washington went eleven minutes. All five judges gave it to Garcia—his footwork's insane. Gonna be a tough out."
Agent Max Black pushes the door open, holding a VCR. "He's a beast. Tape's right here."
Victor nods, keeps jogging in place around the room to keep his heart rate up.
His black buzz-cut's soaked, plastered to his forehead.
Max steps closer, lowers her voice. "I just saw the California champ—6'3", 78-inch reach, 235 pounds. Pure-bred white boy, real polished. Actually complimented your last performance in the hallway."
Victor stops jogging, raises an eyebrow. "What'd he say?"
"Said your left hook 'hits like a freight train.'"
Max shrugs. "Could be genuine, could be mind games."
Door swings again—Old Jack strides in, white hair slicked back perfect, wrinkles carved so deep they look chiseled.
"Victor, time to roll. Remember the plan—evade, burn his gas tank, turn it on in the third."
Victor doesn't answer—just slips in his mouthpiece, takes the gloves Max hands him.
Bright-red gloves, glowing like twin fireballs under the lights.
Hallway lights are harsher; Victor squints.
Crowd roar echoes from far off—the first fight's winner heading out.
Closer to the ring, Victor feels his pulse hammer, adrenaline stacking fast from the self-talk. Brain clears, warrior gene flips on, blood whooshing in his ears louder than anything else.
"And now entering the ring—from Chicago, Illinois… Victorrrr Leeeee!"
Announcer booms over the PA: "His punches come down like a Chicago typewriter—rat-a-tat-tat!"
Victor steps through the tunnel and the boos crash over him like a tidal wave.
Louder and meaner than last time—payback for how he roasted the crowd after the Nelson fight.
Stone-faced, he ducks the ropes, posts up in his corner, scans the stands.
Most faces twisted in sneer, a couple guys flashing throat-slash signs.
"At least they swapped refs," Max whispers in his ear. "Not that asshole from round one."
Victor nods, eyes locked opposite.
California champ's already in his corner—blonde hair shining like gold under the spots, cocky grin plastered on.
Just like Max said—obvious size edge, taller, leaner cuts, even if he's giving up a ton of weight.
To Victor? Doesn't mean squat.
Ref calls them center-ring, quick rules rundown.
Cali champ offers a glove. "Looking forward to this, Lee. Watched your last fight—hell of a show."
Victor hesitates half a second—rage dial actually drops a notch—and bumps gloves. "You too."
Bell.
Round one—Victor sticks to Jack's script, pawing with the jab.
Cali boy's stance is old-school Euro—feet perfect width, weight balanced.
Classic technical style: defense and precision over raw power.
Thirty seconds in, Victor's got his timing.
Jabs are sharp but predictable.
Defense tight, but footwork a hair slow.
Biggest tell: every punch finishes with that tiny reset to guard—old-school coaching 101.
Victor's blood starts simmering, adrenaline spiking harder thanks to those iron kidneys.
Old Jack's voice echoes: "No trading—bleed him dry, third round you unload…"
But a deeper, primal voice drowns it out:
Clear-headed Victor knows he can end it now.
After another Cali jab, Victor switches rhythm—slips a left hook right, ducks the follow-up straight.
Crowd gasps—nobody expects a 370-pounder to move like that.
Victor doesn't pause—bulldozes the center line, drops all guard, unloads a blizzard of leather.
Cali champ clearly didn't scout the savage setting—arms fly up late.
BOOM!
Victor's straight right blasts through, tags the brow.
At the same second, Cali's left hook crushes Victor's own brow.
Shockwave rips through Victor's skull, brain sloshing, but he just rolls that thick neck. Cali champ staggers hard—sounds like something cracked.
Crowd loses it—gasps and cheers.
Victor gives zero breathing room—steps in, right hook explodes the guard apart, left hook digs the body.
Cali bends in pain; Victor twists hips, plants feet, uppercut roars up from hell.
It grazes the forehead—not flush, but enough.
Big white boy timber!—crashes flat on his back like a felled oak, out cold before he hits canvas.
"…Five, six, seven…"
Ref kneeling, counting.
Cali champ claws up on elbows, collapses again at eight.
"…Nine… ten…"
Ref waves it off.
Round one, 2:40—KO.
Wholeplodes.
The same crowd that booed him thirty seconds ago leaps to their feet, damn near blows the roof off.
Victor doesn't flip them off this time—just calm lap around the ring, nodding to every section, then ducks the ropes and heads back.
Crew scrambles to clean the canvas; down the tunnel Victor hears the announcer screaming:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we just witnessed what 'one-punch murder' looks like! This is human courage—eyes wide open, lining up to trade bullets! Victor Lee just reminded us with pure, primal power that boxing is still the domain of the brave!"
Locker room—Michael's got an ice pack on Victor's brow.
"It'll swell, but bone's good."
Michael prods like a doc. "We're adding anti-concussion drills. Gotta toughen that chin."
Old Jack's pacing like a caged bear, face darker than the sky outside.
"You ignored every damn thing I said!"
He stops, jabs a finger. "How many times—technical guys you dance, gas 'em, third round you strike! Not this!"
Victor sits quiet, lets Michael work.
Old Jack keeps unloading: "You know what you wasted? Stamina! Everything—accuracy, power, evasion—runs on gas! Pro boxing ain't a street brawl—you keep this up, career's done in five years!"
Max tries to smooth it. "Jack, he won. And it looked gorgeous—"
"Gorgeous?"
Old Jack snorts. "That was a goddamn animal. Yeah, Tyson's great—but Tyson doesn't eat head shots! Your slips suck!"
Victor finally looks up, meets Old Jack's eyes in the mirror.
Old Jack's trained three pros, old-school methods respected everywhere in amateur circles.
But the thought that's been growing for months hits again:
Old Jack can't be his only voice anymore.
Not because he's bad—because Victor needs more than tradition.
That American style built on Euro foundations—technique, rhythm, defense—smothers the savage inside him.
Today proved it: when he listens to instinct over game plan, he's a different beast.
"Gotta shower."
Victor stands, cutting the lecture short.
Hot water pounds tight muscle.
Eyes closed, he replays every frame—Cali's disbelief when he hit the deck, the crowd flip, that pure feeling when leather lands flush.
Today wasn't just a semifinal ticket.
It was a statement—to himself, to Old Jack, to the whole damn sport:
Victor Lee doesn't punch by anybody else's script.
He kills the water, towels off.
Mirror shows the bruise blooming purple, but his eyes are sharper than ever.
Semis against Alexander Garcia—the "Cuban Nightmare" seed—biggest test of his career so far.
But right now? All Victor feels is hunger.
Because no matter what Old Jack says, he's fighting his way: violent, in-your-face, no mercy.
Like the man said: "Driving a nail don't need fancy—just swing the hammer till it's buried."
····
Nighttime—light rain ticking down, neon reflecting off every drop like scattered diamonds.
Victor stands outside Max Black's hotel room, thumb on the bell, right hand holding a bottle of '82 Lafite—her favorite vintage.
Three rings later, Millie—Max's roommate—opens up.
Long hair in a messy ponytail, rocking an oversized Yale Law tee and workout shorts. Tennessee girl through and through.
"Victor?"
Her eyes go wide, then she smirks—she knows damn well he ain't here for her after the screw-up.
"Max is in the study. Pretty sure I need milk. Takes about half an hour."
She steps aside, grabs a light jacket off the hook.
"Thanks, Millie."
Victor slips her a fifty. "Deli on the corner's still open—their smoked-brisket sandwich slaps, but tell 'em to take their time."
Millie laughs, pockets it anyway. "Make it an hour. Walls are thin."
Victor shakes his head, watches her go, then heads straight to the study door in the two-bedroom suite.
One knock—door cracks open, warm yellow light spilling out.
"Millie, I told you I'm good—I'm cramming sophomore year crap!"
Max's voice from inside.
"It's me."
Victor doesn't push in; the wine bottle catches the light soft and red.
Inside, Max Black's buried in legal papers, black-rimmed glasses perched, eyes tired from hours of reading.
She turns, spots Victor in the gap, freezes, then yanks the glasses off and rubs the bridge of her nose.
"Jesus, Victor. Do you know what time it is?"
She glances at the computer clock—23:47.
"Yeah."
Victor tilts the bottle. "Some things you don't say over the phone. Put some clothes on first."
Max sighs, stands, buttons her pajama top, grabs two wine glasses from the mini-bar by the bookcase.
"Third time trying to change my mind? Answer's still no. And you should be icing that face."
Victor pops the cork like a pro; deep-red liquid swirls in the glasses, same wild bounce as the curves her PJs can't quite tame.