The air in Chicago's South Side smelled like cheap beer and backyard barbecue. Victor Lee stood in front of the locker-room mirror, wrapping his hands with white tape, round after round, tight and clean.
In the glass stared back a monster: 371 pounds of pure mass, a walking mountain. Layers of fat hid muscle most guys couldn't dream of building in a lifetime.
"Victor! Two minutes till you're up!"
Coach Old Jack hollered through the flimsy plywood door.
Victor gave a quick nod and kept wrapping. His knuckles were thick with calluses, souvenirs from thousands of hours pounding the heavy bag.
The first fight was easier than he expected. The guy had decent skills but no pop in his punches. After a little feeling-out, Victor unloaded thunder. One clean shot and the dude was on the canvas. Ref waved it off before the round ended.
Victor was still figuring out where he fit in the food chain, like a young tiger testing what he could kill quick and what needed more work. Every fight was a data point.
"Your next guy's Max Howard," Old Jack said, pushing the door open with a tablet in hand. "North Side rich kid. Ten straight wins now. High technical scores."
Victor snorted, tucking the last strip of tape. "I know him. I've seen his fights. All flash, no gas."
"Don't sleep on him," Jack warned, eyebrows knotted. "Kid's cocky, but he's fast and he games the rules. Wins more on points than you do by KO."
"I'm gonna beat the crap outta him, then rub his face in it," Victor said, cracking his neck. "Finish him off with his own crap."
"Then go get it done!" Jack had zero love for Max. Two days earlier, the golden boy filed a complaint with the boxing commission, claiming Victor's cutman, Millie, was tampering with opponents, trying to bribe them. Millie got suspended six months.
"Don't hold back," Jack growled. "Beat the plug out of him too."
The crowd noise swelled. The announcer's voice boomed over the PA: "Next up, from the North Side, undefeated in ten bouts, the 'Golden Boy,' Max Howard!"
Deafening cheers. Victor followed Jack toward the scale for weigh-ins.
Max was already up there, blond hair slicked back, eight-pack gleaming under the lights. When he spotted Victor, he hammed it up, eyes bugging out.
"Jesus, did they drag this sumo wrestler outta Ringling Brothers?"
Laughter rippled through the press and crew. "This is boxing, not sumo, buddy."
Victor's fists clenched at his sides, but his face stayed stone-cold. He stepped on the scale. The needle shot past 370.
"372 pounds!" the announcer yelled. "New Chicago regional record! The previous mark, 371, also set by this man!"
Max did a fake stumble. "Hey, Yellow Fatty, want some diet pills before we start? I don't wanna go to jail for manslaughter."
Crowd cracked up again.
Heat rushed to Victor's temples, but he just stepped down, brushing past Max. Eyes locked. "See you in the ring, rich boy. Hope you brought a big plug."
Right before the bell, Victor pressed his gloves together in the corner, just one word under his breath: "Him."
Jack's final pep talk: "Control range. Don't let him dance. Wait for your right hand…"
Bell rang. Victor didn't circle or jab. He charged straight to center ice, swinging haymakers.
Max clearly didn't expect the blitz. He flicked a lazy lead jab. Victor ate it off his ear, no flinch. Then unleashed a right hook from hell.
Max leaned back just in time, but Victor's left followed, grazing the ear. Max stumbled, dizzy, backing up.
Crowd lost its mind. Nobody saw this start.
"Come on, you cousin-humping moron!" Victor roared, stomping forward. "Didn't you say you'd knock me out? I'm gonna shove my fist through your gut!"
Max's face changed. He switched to Plan B: circle, stick, move. Quick jabs peppered Victor's chin and belly. The big man barely budged, just kept marching like a freight train.
Bell saved Max after round one. He collapsed in his corner, gasping. Water, ice, frantic massage.
"Damn, his fat's like armor!" Max spat. "My punches sink and die."
"Target the liver," his coach barked. "Hit it enough, no padding saves the organs."
Round two, Max played smarter, sliding to the side, ripping body shots. One sneaky right hook dug into Victor's liver. Victor winced, then answered with a straight right that nearly took Max's head off.
Max blocked with crossed arms; the impact still numbed them to the elbows. Victor poured it on, left-right bombs crumpling Max's guard.
When Max turtle-shelled to protect his head, Victor dipped low and detonated a right uppercut to the body.
"Guhh!"
Max folded, pretty face twisting in agony. The liver shot punched straight through those polished abs, cracking a rib on impact. Thousand-plus pounds of force.
He dropped to a knee, dry-heaving. Ref started the count. Victor instinctively threw another uppercut and nearly decked the ref.
Ref glared, kept counting. At eight, Max tried to rise, legs like jelly, eyes glassy.
"Fight's over!"
Ref raised Victor's hand. "Your winner, Victor Lee!"
Medics swarmed the ring. Victor stood panting, watching Max get stretchered out. No victory high, just frustration.
"Man, you went down too fast. I didn't even get to my good stuff."
Back in the locker room, two officials in league polos approached.
"Mr. Lee, random drug test."
Victor's brow furrowed. "Why just me? Because I'm Asian? Because I'm fat? I got cleared before the fight."
"Standard procedure," one said stiffly. "Your performance raises questions."
Victor laughed, cold. "Yeah, sure."
He knew the game. When they can't explain your wins, they call cheat.
Results came back clean, of course. But the insult lingered for days.
Three days later, Victor was back in the ring, third fight of the tournament. This time against Illinois state youth champ Derek Stone.
Kid was built perfect: 6'2", 230 pounds of lean muscle, moved like a cat.
Pre-fight, Derek grinned for the cameras: "I'm gonna school this big dude on what real boxing looks like. Power ain't everything."
Round one, Derek showed why he was champ. Slick footwork, constant jabs, hit and bounce out. Victor swung heavy leather and missed, burning gas.
"Don't chase!" Jack yelled between rounds. "His reach is shorter! Make him come to you. Save your legs!"
Round two, Derek got cocky, showboating with Ali shuffles. Crowd ate it up.
But Victor noticed: the jabs were slowing, the retreats less springy.
Derek lunged with another jab. Victor exploded forward, closing the gap in one step. Derek's back hit the ropes.
Victor unleashed a blizzard of hooks. Derek clinched hard around the waist, stalling for air.
"Break!"
Ref warned. Derek ignored.
Victor rocked side to side, sweat and baby oil making him slippery. He broke the clinch with raw power.
The second Derek lost balance, Victor fired a straight right, dead center on the face.
CRACK. Derek's nose shattered, blood spraying like a busted faucet.
He staggered, vision swimming. Victor stepped in to finish.
Ref jumped between them, took the brunt of Victor's momentum, got shoved back two steps. Fight stopped.
Derek couldn't count the ref's fingers. TKO. Victor Lee wins again.
Medics rushed to stop the bleeding. Victor walked over to check on him, but Derek's corner glared like he'd committed murder.
"Barbarian! Boxing's a sport!" one assistant coach spat.
Victor shook his head and walked off.
He knew the truth. They didn't hate the violence. They hated that a guy built like him was rewriting the script of what a boxer's "supposed" to look like.
But the guy about to really blow up the "fight vs. sport" debate was coming, fast.
Back in the locker room, Jack slapped his back, grinning ear to ear. "That's my boy! One more win and we're in the national tournament!"
Victor pressed an ice pack to his knuckles, quiet.
He saw Max on the stretcher, Derek's bloody face, the crowd's mix of fear and bloodlust in their eyes.
This was his only path.
But before the final fight, the news hit even faster.