Victor stood in front of the Gallagher house's beat-up red door, his knuckles thudding dully against the chipped paint.
His faded yellow T-shirt looked pathetic—even by South Side standards—but the stubborn glint on his chubby face caught the morning light. Down here, you needed a piece, didn't matter if it worked or not.
Inside, Fiona Gallagher's voice cut through the walls like a chainsaw: "I'm done! How the hell do those three bitches get to mortgage our house? This is the only home we've got!"
Victor didn't flinch. He'd heard worse. He was used to the soundtrack of bottom-rung life.
The door cracked open. Fiona's pissed-off face appeared in the gap—blonde curls tied back in a messy knot, dark circles under her eyes like she hadn't slept in days.
"Oh. Victor. It's you."
Her tone softened a little, but worry was still stamped all over her.
"I'm looking for Carl," Victor said.
Fiona stepped aside. "He's in the kitchen."
Victor nodded and headed straight there, ignoring Ian and Lip in the living room, already cracking open morning beers.
In the kitchen, Carl was tearing into a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. His skinny shoulders looked swallowed by an oversized T-shirt, but his eyes—way too calm for a kid—didn't miss a thing.
"I need a gun," Victor said, straight to the point, voice low like it was coming from a basement. "Accuracy doesn't matter. Just reliable. I'm about to start working in the South Side. As a guy, I need protection."
Carl didn't even look up. Kept chewing.
Victor leaned against the fridge, pulled two rubber-banded rolls of cash from his pocket—each exactly a hundred bucks. The bills glowed green under the kitchen light.
Fiona followed him in. Her eyes lit up when she saw the money.
Victor handed it over. "For the meals I owe."
"Whoa!" Fiona snatched it, fingers flipping through the bills like a pro. "That's way more than I expected."
Ian poked his head in from the living room and let out a loud whistle. "Looks like our new buddy's got deep pockets."
Victor shrugged. "Last time I'm playing generous. Just got kicked out—gotta fend for myself now."
Carl finally glanced up. Fiona blinked. "Old Joe was good to you. No way he'd throw you out."
Victor grabbed a sandwich off the counter, didn't look up. "I'm eighteen. Can't keep being Uncle Joe's burden. He's got two kids of his own."
Kevin and Veronica came up from the basement right on cue.
Kevin clapped Victor on the shoulder, grinning wide. "Looks like we got ourselves a new tough guy! South Side Cannon King's about to hit the streets!"
Victor ignored the ribbing. His eyes stayed locked on Carl.
The kid finally finished eating, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, stood up, and muttered, "Follow me." Then he walked out the back door without another word.
Victor got the message and followed.
They cut through two blocks covered in graffiti, the air thick with trash and piss.
Nick joined them outside an abandoned auto shop.
Nick eyed Victor warily. Carl just gave a quick nod. The three kept moving.
They turned into a narrow alley. Spray-painted on the wall: BLOOD AND GLORY.
Nick stood watch at the entrance. Carl pulled a rusty key from his waistband and opened a metal locker under the fire escape.
"Don't talk business at my house next time," Carl said without turning around. "Life and work don't mix. One-fifty."
He pulled out an oil-paper bundle. "S&W M&P 340. .38 Special. Comes with a hundred rounds."
Victor checked the revolver—clean, cylinder spun smooth.
He pulled the cash from his inner pocket. Carl took it, smirking. "Fat pig, you even know how to use this thing? Bet you handle other stuff down there more than this!"
Victor didn't answer. He ejected the cylinder, loaded it, slid the gun into a holster under his armpit.
He puffed out his gut on purpose—fat perfectly hiding the outline.
"Don't need to be good. Just needs to fire."
As Victor turned to leave, Carl added, "If you get caught, don't say—"
"I found it."
After leaving the alley, Victor hailed a cab to Chinatown in the South Side.
The driver was a quiet old Asian guy. A red knot dangled from the rearview mirror.
The car rolled through rundown streets and stopped in front of a place called Golden Dragon Tea House.
Victor pushed through the door. The smell of tea hit him like a hug.
The old man behind the counter looked up. Sharp eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses.
"I'm here for Third Uncle," Victor said in —clear, fluent, with a thick Hebei accent. "Old Joe sent me."
The old man's face twitched. He pressed a button under the counter. A minute later, a big dude in a black tang suit came out from the back.
"Follow me," the guy said in English.
Down a dim hallway, Victor was led into a smoky office.
calligraphy on the walls. Old photos of Chicago's gang glory days.
Behind the desk sat a guy in his sixties—gray hair slicked back, playing with a pair of jade balls.
"Old Joe's nephew?" Third Uncle asked in English, voice rough like sandpaper.
Victor nodded, pulled an envelope from his pocket—seventy bucks inside. "Protection. And a room."
Third Uncle glanced at it, took a call, hung up, then leaned in.
"You grew up here. Parents too. So where'd you learn ? And not our kind ."
His stare could cut glass.
Victor didn't blink. He wasn't scared of gangsters—he'd worked construction, helped bosses "smooth things over." Seen these guys. They're just people who need a beating sometimes.
"School had this immigrant kid. Dad was a corrupt official back home. I learned from him."
"Who? What's his name?"
Third Uncle pressed. "We can check."
Victor shrugged. "Beats me. Think his dad got caught. Lost his backup. Kid came here with a few million, got tied up, drained dry, starved to death."
Third Uncle knew the story—they did it.
What he didn't know? It was all coincidence. That kid had been a stuck-up prick, thought he was better than everyone, wouldn't even look at Victor the fat kid.
Third Uncle took the envelope, tossed it in a drawer without counting.
He grabbed a metal pendant off the desk and threw it to Victor. "Wear this. In Chicago, long as you don't start trouble, nobody touches you."
Then he slid over a key. "23 West Street. Top floor storage room. Pay up in a week or get out."
Walking out of the tea house, Victor felt eyes on him from the shadows. Nobody stopped him.
23 West Street was a crumbling six-story walk-up. Top floor: freezing in winter, a sauna in summer. But it had a bed, a hot plate, and a private bathroom.
For Victor? Good enough.
For the next three days, he ghosted through the South Side.
Daytime: parked in cheap diners, flipping through newspapers, ears wide open to every conversation.
Night: bars and pool halls, trading a few beers for info.
He focused on three things:
Gang turf shifts.
Cop patrol routes—how to avoid gun checks.
Any legit job leads.
On the fourth morning, he stopped in front of a help-wanted sign at Morrison's Hardware.
They needed a stock clerk. Pay sucked, but it was legal.
He was jotting down the number when a voice came from behind:
"Job hunting? Guy like you belongs in a bar. They always need someone to scare people."
Victor turned. White dude in a leather jacket. Neck tattoo: WHITE POWER.
"Thanks for the tip," Victor said, calm. Noticed the gun bulge at the guy's waist.
The guy flashed a gold tooth, snarled, "Get lost."
Victor walked away.
He was starting to get noticed—by gangs, by cops. Nobody likes a drifter with no job.
Time was running out.
He had to choose:
Take a job. Stay low. Make rent.
Or invest what little he had left for a bigger shot?
But the South Side doesn't carry dead weight.
His pager buzzed. Message from Old Joe: "You got a package!"
---
Uncle Joe held the package with grease-stained fingers, turning it over like it might explode. His eyebrows were scrunched so tight they could've crushed a fly.
Cheap brown paper. Black marker scrawled: VICTOR LI. No return address. Just a South Side postmark from the third precinct.
"Weird," Joe muttered, tapping the workbench with a wrench. "Didn't you pass out that day?"
The garage fan squeaked, churning the early fall heat into sticky soup.
Twenty minutes later, a rusty bike crashed into the trash cans outside.
"Uncle Joe! What's so urgent—"
Victor pushed through the door. Joe barely recognized him.
Five days gone, and the kid who used to drown in oversized T-shirts, hair greasy and knotted, was now in deep blue work pants and a tight gray-white shirt. Two hundred pounds of bulk stretched the fabric like a bull ready to charge.
"Figured out what you're doing yet?" Joe asked, eyeing the outfit. Clearly prepping for hard labor—and maybe growing up.
"Yeah. Starting at a lumber yard. They need someone to sort timber. Takes strength. Stamina."
Victor avoided his uncle's eyes, grabbed a cold Coke from the bench, chugged half.
"Where's the package?"
Joe handed it over, still suspicious.
Victor used the ridge on his ring to slice the tape. A black card with gold edges slid out and hit the floor.
Joe picked it up, sucked in a breath—embossed with a bloody boxing glove. Below: 23rd Annual South Side Badass Boxing Tournament · Self-Funded Fighter.
"What the hell is this?"
Victor unfolded the papers. A photo fluttered out.
It was him—last week, in the junkyard, fighting three punks. Someone drew a red arrow to his head: VICTOR LI.
Joe snatched the letter, eyes bugging behind his reading glasses.
"Jesus Christ! This is a death warrant!"
His hands shook. "Last year, 62 fighters—15 dead, 23 crippled! The Italians spike the drinks with speed. The Irish put laxatives in the water—"
But Victor was staring at the prize list on the last page:
Champion: $50,000
Runner-up: $20,000
Top 16: $3,000 even if you lose
"The thing is," Joe grabbed Victor's shoulders, "there's no drug testing. They want you juiced up like a bomb!"
Victor realized he was in deep—but then the garage door rattled with a blaring horn.
A cherry-red Porsche 911 screeched to a stop outside, bass-heavy rap shaking the walls.
Mark—the school board guy's son—rolled down the window. Half his platinum-blonde hair glowed like burning magnesium. The other half? Wrapped in white gauze.
"Well, well! South Side's next boxing star!"
Mark mocked a ring announcer. The three guys in the car laughed like hyenas.
A kid in the back with a lip ring held up a drawing: Victor on a fight poster, captioned FAT PIG COWARD VICTOR'S FINAL FIGHT.
Victor's fists cracked. But Joe yanked his overall straps hard. "Don't fall for it, kid. They want you in."
Mark flicked a flyer into the garage—Victor in the cafeteria, covered in tomato soup.
"Listen up, fat pig," Mark sneered, crocodile smile wide. "Either get in the ring and get turned into ground beef—or let the whole South Side know you're too chicken to step up."
The Porsche roared off. An egg flew from the back seat, exploding in stinking goo at Victor's feet.
Dusk cut through the grimy windows, carving shadows across Victor's face.
He picked up the slime-covered envelope. Inside: a note.
"Entry fee paid by Mark Williams. Can't wait to break your nose at Westside Arena — Event Director J."
Victor gritted his teeth so hard they hurt.
In five days, he'd thought about a lot—construction, security, maybe even managing fighters. But competing? Hell no. Two hundred pounds doesn't exactly scream "athlete."
But now? No choice.
In America, being called a coward gets you buried with no tombstone.
Uncle Joe knew it too. "No other way out. Unless you leave Chicago now—and Third Uncle won't let you walk that easy."
Only one question left:
"Uncle Joe… how do I get ring-ready in one month?"