June 30, 1985—Victor stood on the Atlantic City boardwalk, salt wind slapping his face.
He squinted at the golden monstrosity in the distance—Trump Plaza Hotel blazing in the sunset like a modern Tower of Babel built with cash.
Who the hell is Trump?
Victor didn't know. But Victor Lee did—Comrade Chuan Jianguo.
"Signing tomorrow. Don't start any shit."
Foley chomped his cigar and clapped Victor's shoulder.
The promoter rocked a navy Armani suit today, gold tie clip flashing like a signal flare.
Victor rolled his neck—crack, crack. "Long as that Japanese guy behaves."
Foley watched Victor pull out a Black Hilton cigarette and light it, then set his cigar aside.
Victor knew the drill—offered one.
Lighter flicked. Both men puffed.
"FUCK!!! This hits like weed!"
Foley grabbed the railing, riding the nicotine wave. Half a cig later he came to: "Victor… how the hell do you smoke through your lungs and not wreck your heart?"
Victor knew—hyper-absorption, iron guts, red blood cells regenerating like crazy.
But he just shook his head.
Foley, half-dizzy, half-serious: "Tomorrow—don't go overboard."
Victor took a drag, crushed the butt with his fingers: "No chaos, no buzz. No buzz, no papers. No papers, Trump doesn't cash in. Trump doesn't cash in—we don't eat."
He said it casual, eyes locked on the giant 'TRUMP' sign atop the hotel.
That was Donald Trump's private office—overlooking the whole damn city.
Foley followed his gaze and grinned: "Old man's sharp. Know why he picked us?"
Didn't wait for an answer: "You're Asian. Fujimoto's Japanese. Forty years after WWII, Asians beating each other still makes wallets open."
"That's just point one!"
Victor smirked—he knew the game. Boxing wasn't sport. It was business:
"Foley, point two: America's pissed at Japan. All those yen-waving bastards buying up U.S. real estate? Blue-collar folks hate it. We're riding the wave."
Win the fight, casino rakes it in—he gets the next one.
"Who's Tyson fighting?"
"George Alderson—six-five giant, but no match. Waist like a damn pencil. Six-pack don't mean shit!"
Foley scoffed, then sighed: "Still, Kayton's got pull—landed Trump as promoter."
Victor glanced at Foley, smoked in silence.
"Let's go. Check the venue."
Foley checked his gold Rolex. "Trump put us in the penthouse suites—'special treatment.'"
Trump Plaza's lobby was pure excess—crystal chandeliers dangling from a 60-foot dome, marble floors you could skate on.
Casino noise everywhere: slot machines chirping, air thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and booze.
Victor clocked at least six black-suit security lurking in shadows, eyes sweeping like searchlights.
"Fight's at the convention center, but signing's here. Day 1 signing, Day 10 weigh-in, Day 11 fight."
Foley lowered his voice: "Old man wants drama. You get it?"
Victor nodded: "I'm not gonna cry about it."
He got it—tomorrow's signing was theater, milking rich suckers. He and Fujimoto? Puppets.
Victor had no beef with Japanese people. Like Lee Shengli, he believed all Japanese should die—equally.
---
Next morning: Victor stretched by the suite's floor-to-ceiling windows.
43 floors up, the Atlantic sparkled like liquid sapphire.
He cracked his knuckles, imagining them crunching Fujimoto Kyotaro's jaw.
Last night he studied the guy: 6'0", 230 lbs, 27-0, 24 KOs.
Japanese media called him 'Red Demon'—dyed fire-red hair, brutal style. Easier translated as red-haired devil.
"Nine a.m. signing, ten a.m. press conference."
Foley walked in tying his tie. "Trump sent a car."
---
Golden Hall, 3rd floor
Victor stepped in—dozen eyes locked on.
One side of the long table: Fujimoto and his crew. The red-haired guy was laughing in Japanese with his team. Spotted Victor, raised his voice—something that made everyone roar.
"That's Fujimoto."
Foley whispered. "His manager Yamamoto's Japan's biggest promoter. Worked with Trump before."
Victor walked stone-faced to his seat.
Fujimoto wore a blood-red suit, hair like a bonfire.
He tilted his head, smirked, and in broken English: "Chink, ready for hospital?"
Room froze.
Foley grabbed Victor's arm. Victor just sat, flipped open the contract—didn't even catch the slur, guy's English was garbage.
Then Trump burst in.
39-year-old real estate king in signature navy suit, hair perfect.
"Gentlemen!"
Arms wide like he owned the air. "This'll be the greatest Asian showdown in Atlantic City history!"
Victor noticed Trump's eyes glued to the Japanese TV camera behind Fujimoto.
Signing went smooth—until the file swap.
Fujimoto muttered in Japanese—"zhina"—then spat at Victor's feet.
Time stopped.
Victor saw the dark stain on the carpet. Heard Foley gasp. Felt his temples throb.
Fujimoto grinned, smug. One of his guys repeated in English: "Trash."
Next second—
Victor slapped the translator across the face, left straight flying at Fujimoto's nose.
The crack echoed. Women screamed. Chairs toppled.
Fujimoto lunged—held back.
Two Japanese rushed. Victor left hook dropped the first. Right straight to the gut folded the second like a shrimp.
"ENOUGH!"
Trump's roar rattled the chandeliers—he'd underestimated. This id didn't follow scripts. He hit to kill.
Lucky the Japanese pulled Fujimoto back—that straight would've ended it.
Trump thought: "Told you—hit the hardest!"
Security stormed in, separated sides.
Victor's knuckles bled, joints burning. He stared Fujimoto down—the Japanese wiped his face, nose bleeding onto his white collar.
"Perfect!"
Trump laughed, clapping. "Tomorrow's headline—locked!"
He turned to stunned reporters: "You get that? Better than Tyson's presser!"
Chaos. Signing wrapped fast.
---
Elevator back to suite: Foley's face gray. "You nuts? Boxing Weekly will brand you a thug!"
"You told me to make noise!"
Victor licked a split lip. "You see his eyes? He's scared."
Mirror showed his bloody knuckles. "In the ring? I'll make him terrified."
---
That afternoon: Atlantic City Press sports front page: "ASIAN BOXERS BRAWL AT SIGNING"
Photo: Victor mid-punch.
Foley burst in waving the paper—grinning.
"We're front page! Trump just called—ticket sales up 30%!"
Victor iced his right hand, shrugged.
TV replayed the brawl. Fujimoto in interview, Japanese: "First-round KO."
Victor killed the TV. Pulled Fujimoto's title defense tape from last year.
"Call Frankie."
To Foley: "Need to break down Fujimoto's 'Crimson Lotus Thrust'."
Frankie—Victor's coach.
---
That night: Hotel gym, heavy bag area
Frankie replayed Fujimoto's signature move—sudden low stance, explosive uppercut.
"Look—"
Frankie paused the tape. "He blinks left eye before throwing."
Marked a circle with Sharpie. "You're taller by an inch, reach four inches longer, power crushes him. Don't dance—smother with force!"
Victor drilled straights on the bag—hundreds.
Sweat pooled on the floor.
He pictured Fujimoto's red hair under the lights. That spit arcing through the air.
"Zhina"—like a splinter in his brain.
---
Midnight, back in suite: Trump's secretary waiting. Handed a note—Trump's handwriting:
"Win this, I'll line up fighters for you. —DT"
Victor crumpled it, tossed it in the trash.
"Business is business! Quit the mystery!"
Outside, Atlantic City neon turned the ocean purple.
Three days—he'd face Fujimoto under the convention center lights. Every slot machine flashing their odds.
Victor shadowboxed in the mirror. Eyes cold as ice.
"One round to finish you!"
He whispered. Fist cut the air—whoosh.
"But I'm gonna break your bones! One round ain't enough!"