The crowd let out a collective "OH!" that rippled through the arena like a shockwave.
People shot to their feet. Hands flew to mouths.
Victor could hear Frankie yelling from the corner: "That's it! Keep going!"
"Beautiful body shot! Eddie's face is hurting!"
The announcer was practically screaming—he thought the end was right there.
But Eddie barely clinched Victor, buying time to breathe. His sweat soaked Victor's shoulder, his breath hot and ragged.
The ref broke them fast. Victor caught a flash of fear in Eddie's eyes—something that guy had never felt in the ring before.
When they restarted, Eddie switched it up, using his height to back Victor toward the corner.
His jab got careful, precise, trying to keep distance.
"Smart adjustment—Victor can't keep that pressure up for a full round!"
The announcer called it: "Eddie's turning this into a war of attrition."
Victor leaned on the ropes, looking trapped—but it was exactly where he wanted to be.
He played tired on purpose, letting Eddie get cocky.
When Eddie came in with a smug combo, Victor spotted it—his right hand dropped half an inch lower than usual. Just like Frankie said.
Victor ducked under a wild hook and unleashed a right hook to the body with everything he had—power starting in his feet, twisting through his hips, exploding into Eddie's ribs.
BOOM.
The sound echoed through the whole arena, louder than the crowd for a split second.
Eddie's face twisted. His huge frame folded forward like a tree getting chopped down.
His blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Spit flew from his mouth.
In that split second, Victor loaded up again—every ounce of power from the ground up, twisting through his core, and cracked a perfect uppercut right under Eddie's exposed chin.
He felt the impact—fist on bone. The kind of hit you never forget, because your hand might pay for it later.
Time froze for a heartbeat.
Eddie's eyes went blank. His baby blues rolled up. Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Then his 240-pound body hit the canvas like a sack of potatoes—THUD.
The ring shook.
"KO!"
The ref dove in—no need for a count.
Medics rushed the ring. One pried Eddie's eyelids open, checking pupils.
The arena exploded.
Everyone was on their feet. Some cheering, some stunned silent—one-round KO paid 1:1.5.
Camera flashes popped like stars, freezing the moment forever.
Victor walked calmly to the neutral corner, watching the medics swarm the unconscious Eddie.
He didn't celebrate wild—just a small nod to Frankie, who was losing his mind in the corner.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The ring announcer's voice boomed through the speakers: "Your winner, by knockout at 1:30 of the first round—'Fat Tiger' Victor Lee!"
Victor raised both arms. Sweat glittered under the lights.
He glanced at Eddie, now coming to, looking lost and confused as his team crowded around with water and towels.
When the ref raised Victor's hand, the crowd started chanting: "Victor! Fat Tiger! Fat Tiger!"
A small smirk tugged at his lips, but he kept it cool.
He knew this wasn't just a win over Eddie—it was proof his training, his style, worked. Maybe even Tyson could be beat.
Walking off the stage, he took one last look at Eddie, still slumped on the stool, looking small despite his size.
Victor exhaled, heading to the locker room. Next fight.
---
Post-fight interviews—reporters swarmed.
"Victor, did you really bet on yourself to KO him in the first round?"
"One-point-five odds!"
Victor wiped sweat off his face, flashing a rare grin: "I put my whole savings on it."
"How'd you do it? Eddie's so much taller!"
Victor pointed to the cut on his forehead: "He gave me the best motivation."
Then he looked dead into the camera, tone shifting: "Who's next?"
---
In the locker room, Foucault slapped Victor's shoulder, laughing: "Kid, you just tripled your value! Everlast just called—they want you repping their gear and they'll host your next fight."
Victor nodded, letting the doc wrap his slightly swollen hand.
He stared at his reflection—the cut was scabbing over like a badge of honor.
"Not yet."
He said it calm: "I'm fighting Tyson first."
Foucault's grin got wider: "That's the Victor I know."
---
That night, Victor stood alone on the hotel balcony, overlooking Atlantic City's glowing boardwalk.
A $300,000 check sat quietly on the table inside, but his mind was already on the next guy hitting the canvas.
This win was just the start. He knew it—Tyson was the mountain you had to climb to be heavyweight champ. No way was he gonna wait till the guy was washed up.
"We've got pride, man. I'm not pulling that crap."
---
Nobody's dumb—especially not in the country that brags about having the smartest, most educated people on the planet. Outside those few minutes lost to powder, booze, or bad decisions, most folks are sharp.
But Trump? He loved treating people like idiots.
Victor stood in the middle of the gym, sweat dripping off his brow, catching the morning light like tiny sparks.
He'd just finished a brutal ab session—getting hit in the gut with a medicine ball hurts—and was toweling off.
The TV was replaying Trump's interview from last week. The golden-haired real estate mogul was running his mouth at the camera.
"Victor's a great young kid—powerful punches, vicious style—but let's be real: he's not ready for the real beast yet. But hey, people love a Washington vs. Lincoln story, right?"
Trump winked at the camera. Victor's stomach twisted.
"Turn that damn TV off."
He muttered to his sparring partner, voice low.
He didn't need to hear it. Ever since Trump started promoting his fights, the backhanded shade never stopped.
Build him up on the surface, then hint he's just Tyson's next victim.
Lowell Hadda pushed through the gym doors, holding a stack of papers, face dark like a storm rolling in.
"We need to talk."
Lowell glanced around, motioning everyone else out. "Alone."
Victor waved them off: "We'll take the side room."
Door shut, Lowell spread the papers on a weight bench.
"Trump buried something in the contract. If the fighter goes undefeated, he can force a fight one month early—and pay five times the appearance fee."
He pointed to a tiny line in the fine print, stunned: "Just like we thought. Final fight can be you vs. Tyson—unless you pay the same amount to get out of it."
Victor stared at the line. No real reaction.
He'd known Trump wasn't clean, but this blatant? Controlling his whole career?
"Does Foucault know?"
His voice stayed flat: "Jimmy warned me about the risk. I told him I was in."
Lowell exhaled. "Foucault already called Cayton."
He lowered his voice at Tyson's manager's name: "Cayton's pissed too. Trump wants to use you as Tyson's stepping stone—and milk both of you for max profit."
It clicked for Victor—why Tyson had gone cold lately.
Last week at a sponsor event, they'd been cool. But Tyson's eyes were mean.
Victor thought he was just locked in for training. Now it made sense—Tyson knew the fight was rigged, thought Victor had been playing nice to set him up.
Because Trump needed a winner.
"That smug bastard."
Victor slammed the heavy bag. It swung hard, chains screeching.
"He thinks he can play us like his real estate deals?"
Lowell grabbed his shoulder: "Cool it, Victor. Anger doesn't fix contracts. Foucault set up an off-the-record meet tonight with Tyson's team—at Trump's hotel. Just you two."
"At Trump's place?"
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"That's the point."
Lowell smirked: "Let him sweat."
---
That night, Victor got there 30 minutes early.
Trump's hotel restaurant was all gold and crystal—chandeliers so bright it felt like noon.
He picked a corner booth, back to the wall, eyes on the door.
When Mike Tyson walked in, the room hushed with whispers.
Tyson wore a simple black tee and jeans, gold chain swinging.
His eyes scanned, locked on Victor, and he strode over.
"Victor."
His voice was low, powerful. He stuck out his hand: "Been a minute."
Victor stood, gripping the hand that had flattened legends: "Mike. Thanks for coming."
Tyson sat. A waiter approached—Tyson waved him off.
"Let's cut the crap."
He stared Victor down: "I know why you wanted this."
Victor took a breath: "You know Trump's plan."
"That greedy son of a bitch."
Tyson sneered: "He wants one last big score before my contract's up. You're the sacrifice. He'll hype you for a month, then have me end you."
Victor's fingers tapped the tablecloth.
Tyson leaned in: "Listen—I've watched all your fights. You've got real talent. But Trump doesn't care. He wants you in front of me at my peak. Win or lose, he cashes out huge."
A thrill crawled up Victor's spine. Before, facing Tyson made him nervous. Now? Excited.
"I'm in. You're ranked 130 in heavyweight. I'm still 700-something. I'm not turning down a shot at you—and you want it too, right?"
"You think I want this?"
Tyson's voice spiked—nearby tables turned. He dropped it: "I've bled for years in this sport. I don't need to beat low-ranked guys to prove anything."
The chandelier light danced in Tyson's eyes. For the first time, Victor saw real anger—not at him, but at the guy trying to puppet them both.
"Then why ice me out?"
Victor asked straight: "Ever since Trump started pushing my fights, you ghosted."
Tyson sighed, spinning his water glass with thick fingers: "Didn't want to put pressure on you. If we stayed tight, Trump would use it—more hype, more expectations."
Victor got it now—Tyson's clumsy way of protecting a friend.
He wasn't the money-driven Tyson yet.
"I misread you."
Victor said honestly: "But Mike—I want you at 100%. I want to see how far apart we really are."
"Far apart? Don't talk nonsense."
Tyson cracked a rare smile: "I'm not even sure I'd beat you. But the problem is—what do we do? Fight's a fight, but Trump's got us locked in. I don't want him winning."
Victor's eyes hardened: "I'm not ducking. If it's you and me, I'll be in that ring, no fear."
Tyson nodded: "Keep going."
"I want this fight!"
Victor told him: "And I need you to agree—fifteen rounds. Make Trump bleed money."
"Nice. But you might not last fifteen."
"That's on me."
"To your arrogance!"
Tyson raised his glass, then got dead serious: "Victor—one thing. If we end up in that ring, I'm not holding back. That's the most respect I can give you."
Victor met his eyes: "That's exactly what I want. What happens in the ring stays in the ring. But after tonight—no matter what—you're my friend."