Neon lights from downtown Chicago bled through the hotel window, splashing shifting colors across Victor's face.
He was parked in the suite's prime spot—dead center in front of the TV—with a glass of whiskey he'd barely touched.
The room was packed. Michael, Ethan, Jimmy, Old Jack, Foucault, plus Ray (fighting light heavyweight), Millie, and Max.
Everyone's eyes were glued to the 25-inch color set showing the fight live from the MGM Grand.
They'd booked three rooms total: Victor and Michael in one with Ethan; Ray with Old Jack and Foucault; Millie and Max in the third.
"I still can't believe Apollo agreed to this exhibition," Foucault muttered to Old Jack, fingers drumming the minibar. The guys were all lined up by the window, cigarette smoke thick in the air. "Back then he was just a cocky kid. Now? This is straight-up reckless."
Old Jack flicked ash into a tray and shook his head. "Apollo's stubborn as hell—especially when it's about American boxing pride. You remember those three wars with Rocky? The man's got warrior blood."
Foucault nodded, eyes flicking back to the screen.
Victor didn't blink.
There he was—Apollo Creed, strutting to the ring in his signature stars-and-stripes trunks, flashing that cocky grin that drove Victor nuts and made him proud all at once.
The crowd roared like a jet engine. Camera flashes popped like hail on a tin roof.
"He ain't a fighter," Victor whispered. "He's a damn knight."
Apollo had chewed him out once, but Victor didn't hold it against him. In every other way, the guy was the gold standard of chivalry.
Then Ivan Drago stepped into the aisle, and the room went quiet.
Six-foot-five of Soviet granite. Muscles carved like marble. Face blank as a wall.
Behind him: a grim coach and a couple of suit-wearing Kremlin goons.
"Jesus, that dude's a freakin' polar bear," someone breathed.
Victor's stomach knotted.
He'd seen Drago's sparring tapes at the gym, but live? Still stole his breath.
Every move the Russian made was mechanical—precise, eerie, powerful.
The bell rang. Victor leaned forward like the couch was pulling him.
First round started slow. Apollo danced his famous shuffle, jabbing, probing. He ate punches but stayed in it.
Drago? Barely moved. Just tracked Apollo with those ice-blue eyes.
"What's Apollo doing? Why ain't he swinging?" Old Jack growled.
"He can't," Victor said, nails digging into his palms. "He's looking for rhythm, but Drago's defense is locked tight—heavy hands, fast feet!"
Right then Drago exploded.
A right hand blurred past Apollo's guard. Apollo slipped it—just. But the left hook was already coming.
It grazed his chin. The champ staggered.
The room gasped.
Victor shot to his feet.
Drago didn't fight like any boxer Victor knew. No wasted motion. No feeling-out process. Every punch was cold, calculated murder.
"This ain't an exhibition," Victor's voice cracked. "That bastard's trying to kill him!"
The next rounds were a nightmare.
Apollo's combos bounced off Drago like rain on a tank. Every Soviet shot chipped away at the champ's guard.
Then an uppercut lifted Apollo off his feet.
"Get up!" Victor screamed at the TV like Apollo could hear.
He climbed up at nine, legs jelly.
But Drago gave him no air. A liver shot folded him. A straight right split his face open.
Blood sprayed—nose, mouth, canvas.
Victor's vision blurred. He knew that look—Apollo couldn't see straight. Pure instinct now.
"Stop the damn fight!" Victor roared. "Throw in the towel, you cowards!"
But Apollo's corner stayed frozen.
He'd told them: Never quit for me. This is my fight.
End of round one felt like mercy.
Round two started like a death knell.
Drago charged. A right hook cracked Apollo's temple.
The champ dropped like a felled oak, skull bouncing off the mat.
Dead silence in the suite.
Only the announcer's panicked voice: "Creed is down… oh God, Creed isn't moving!"
Victor's blood turned to ice.
Apollo's eyes were open but empty.
Medics swarmed. Drago stood aside, expressionless—like he'd just finished a shift at the factory.
"No… no…" Victor's voice broke. "You can kill a man with gloves on?"
The screen cut to commercial. The room erupted in rage and grief.
Victor collapsed into his chair, hands shaking over his face.
Apollo was gone.
His friend—the grinning, flag-waving, American-Dream-believing warrior—dead in a meaningless sideshow.
"That wasn't a fight," Old Jack rasped. "That was an execution."
Victor nodded like a robot, replaying Drago's strikes in his head.
Not boxing. Assassination. Every punch engineered for maximum damage. Zero emotion.
He fumbled for a quarter, stumbled to the payphone in the hall. Needed to call Rocky. Now.
Rang forever. No answer.
Hour after hour, Victor redialed. Finally, past midnight—click.
"Rocky? It's Victor."
Heavy breathing on the line. Then Rocky, voice like gravel: "You saw the fight."
Not a question.
Victor shut his eyes. "I saw. Rocky—how's Apollo?"
"They killed him."
The words hit like a sledge. "You were right—he'd only go out on his shield. They ordered the corner not to throw the towel. Used him for propaganda… then murdered him."
Victor's knuckles went white. "Where are you?"
"MGM. Apollo's… still here. In the hospital." Rocky's voice cracked. "They won't even let me see him. Boxing commission brought in a 'special medical team.'"
"This is insane! We gotta—"
"I already decided," Rocky cut in, steel in his tone. "I'm fighting Drago. Christmas Day. Moscow. Exhibition."
Victor nearly dropped the phone. "You're out of your mind! You saw what he did! He'll kill you too!"
"Maybe," Rocky said, calm as death. "But Apollo was my friend. My brother."
Victor wanted to scream—You're thirty-seven! Retired two years!—but the silence on the line said it all.
Finally: "If you need me, say the word."
He hung up, dazed. Ethan shoved a double whiskey into his hand. Victor downed it. Didn't help the cold in his bones.
The TV flipped to news: "Tragic accident… Creed's valiant stand embodies the American spirit… Drago's win showcases Soviet athletic superiority."
Victor killed the set with a punch of the remote.
Then his eyes snagged on a copy of the Las Vegas Sun on the bar. Sports section headline:
"NEW STAR RISES: MIKE TYSON DESTROYS MERCEDES!"
Photo: a kid barely twenty, ripped, eyes like a wolf ready to eat the world.
Victor knew Tyson—1982 Junior Olympic champ.
But Victor knew the future: the guy who'd unify the WBA, WBC, and IBF belts. The man who'd turn boxing into a bloodsport.
The paper said:
March 6, 1985 – Albany, NY: Hector Mercedes TKO'd by Tyson in Round 1, 1:47.
Victor stared. A chill crawled up his spine.
Tyson's style—feral, explosive, merciless—echoed Drago's… but different.
Tyson fought with rage. Drago fought like a machine.
"The game's changing," Victor muttered.
He could feel it: giants looming over the sport. Tyson. A new breed of kings.
And at the eye of the storm? Rocky Balboa—an aging champ walking into the fire for a dead friend.
Victor pulled out a photo from a month back: him, Apollo, and Rocky at the gym. Apollo's arms around both their shoulders, grinning like the sun.
He set it down gently.
Suddenly he got it. Why Rocky was doing this.
Sometimes honor outweighs life. Sometimes a symbol means more than a thousand wins.
But for a shallow guy like Victor? One reason he'd landed in this era of boxing legends:
Fight the baddest dudes. Bang the hottest chicks.
He threw open the window. Late-spring stars glittered over the city.
"Tyson can do it," Victor whispered to the night. "Why the hell not me?"