Atlantic City, 1985—the air thick with money and hunger.
In the gold-drenched lobby of Trump Plaza Hotel, Victor straightened his suit cuffs. The marble floor mirrored his clenched jaw like a damn spotlight.
Three days ago, his run-in with Japanese fighter Kyotaro Fujimoto at the contract signing had already hit the front page of the New York Times sports section.
"Victor, they're here."
Fouquet hustled over, trailed by a pack of Asian faces.
Ethan Lee led the charge—steady stride, followed by two young guys: Michael Lee and Liz Chen. Behind them, twelve dudes in matching red SHW uniforms—straight from the dojo.
Victor clocked the way they carried themselves: shoulders back, chins high. Years of martial arts drilled into muscle memory.
"Bro!"
Victor pulled Ethan into a hug and caught a whiff. "Man, you stink—didn't shower?"
"How? On the road? I'm ripe!"
Ethan slapped his back. "Heard you tangled with the Japanese. Old Zhao rounded up twenty guys, threw on the uniforms, and rolled out. Hundred bucks a head!"
Victor smirked. "Just hyping the fight."
"Ha!"
A ponytailed dojo kid behind Ethan cracked up. "Victor, we came to clean house!"
Victor recognized him—Zhang Ming, SHW delivery driver and one of the gym's top dogs.
His great-granddad was one of the first laborers tricked into coming to America. Took down five Japanese sailors on the docks… with a single iron spike through the gut.
Ethan added, "Use these twenty however you want. Second batch lands tomorrow morning!"
Victor got the picture.
"Trump hooked us up with rooms—three total."
Victor eyed the pumped-up crew. "Remember: you're here for training support and therapy. Not brawling."
After settling the team, Victor held a strategy meeting in his penthouse suite.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Atlantic City's neon glowed like a river of stars. But his mind flashed back—three days ago, two days ago, one day ago… Fujimoto calling Asian fighters "soft as women" at the presser, slinging slurs that burned in Victor's chest.
But America's a country of laws—Victor couldn't just bury the bastards with gang tactics.
"Victor?"
Liz Chen's voice snapped him back. "Your back needs one last acupuncture session."
Her fingers were ice-cold. The needle prick made Victor wince.
She was Michael's girlfriend, an acupuncture specialist, the youngest on the medical team but calm beyond her years.
"Official training starts tomorrow,"
Victor told everyone in the room. "This fight isn't just—"
A sharp knock cut him off.
Fouquet walked in, face grim. "Japanese team checked in early. Right below us. Twenty guys—more than planned."
Victor glanced at Ethan. Ethan nodded.
The restaurant clash came faster than expected.
Next day at lunch, Victor and his crew hit the hotel dining room. Fujimoto and his squad strolled in from the opposite side.
Fujimoto rocked a T-shirt with the Japanese flag. Spotted Victor and cranked his voice: "Look, the turdman brought his circus."
The room went dead silent.
Victor felt the dojo boys behind him breathing heavier, but he just sipped his water, cool as hell.
"What, no balls to talk?"
Fujimoto closed in on Victor's table. "Where's that big mouth from the signing?"
Zhang Ming shot up—chair screeching across the floor.
Victor raised a hand: Sit. Said in clear , "Not here."
Fujimoto caught a few words, mocked back in broken : "Scared? shit…pig…"
The glass in Victor's hand cracked.
He took a deep breath, set it down, and switched to English: "Somewhere else…"
"Right here!"
Fujimoto grabbed a plate off the table and hurled it at Victor's head.
Victor ducked—the plate grazed his ear, smashed against the wall, shards everywhere.
Time froze. Victor saw fire in Zhang Ming's eyes, shock on Liz's face, other diners backing up…
"Medical and bail? On me!"
Victor roared in : "Count it as workers' comp!"
The next thirty seconds were a hurricane.
Twelve dojo guys swarmed the six Japanese fighters like wolves.
Zhang Ming side-kicked one dude three yards—crashed through two tables.
Two Eagle Claw stylists pinned a sneak-attacker to the salad bar, dislocated his arm.
…
Victor stayed put, fists clenched white but didn't jump in.
He caught the look in the Japanese guys' eyes after Zhang Ming dropped them—not fear. Pure hate.
This wasn't show. This was real.
Fujimoto never moved—guess they were playing the same game: use the law to keep the other guy from fighting.
By the time hotel security rushed in, six Japanese fighters were groaning on the floor.
One guy's nose bent sideways, blood soaking his flag shirt.
"Everybody out of the hotel—NOW!"
The head of security bellowed.
Ethan calmly pulled out a credit card. "Charge the damages to this."
Kicked out to the curb, the Japanese still talked trash while limping away: "Three days. Docks. You coming?"
Zhang Ming opened his mouth—then the second wave rolled up. Twenty more guys in SHW uniforms poured out of three Fords, lining up silently behind Victor.
Fujimoto's face froze. His crew dragged him off.
That night, papers ran the headline: " Brawl Erupts at Trump Plaza"
Photo: Victor standing calm in the chaos.
"Victor Lee, you're a goddamn headline machine."
Next morning, Donald Trump raised a champagne flute in his private office. "Betting pool's up a third."
Victor swirled his glass, half-listening.
His eyes landed on the quiet kid in the corner—Mike Tyson, just 19, but already making the boxing world nervous.
Wearing a suit two sizes too big, like a caged animal.
"Mr. Tyson,"
Victor walked over. "I've seen all your amateur tapes."
Tyson looked up, guarded. "And?"
"Your head movement's the best I've ever seen. Your punches? Cannon fire—precise and deadly."
Victor meant it. "If you're down, I'd love you to demo for my team."
Tyson's guard dropped a notch. "Cus said you fight less like a boxer, more like a mob boss."
Victor laughed. "Sometimes the fights outside the ring are dirtier."
Trump jumped in, arms around both: "Two future kings! Maybe team up?"
By the end of lunch, Victor and Tyson swapped numbers.
On the elevator ride back, Fouquet buzzed: "Linking with Tyson? Gold! His manager wants into the Asian market."
Victor didn't reply.
Staring at his reflection—suit sharp, face calm—he remembered Fujimoto's hate-filled glare as he left.
This wasn't business anymore. It was something darker.
His pager buzzed—Ethan: "Fujimoto's team just issued a statement: gonna 'settle everything' in the ring."
Victor shut the pager. Night swallowed him through the window.
The 11th wasn't a promo stunt anymore. It was war.
He stripped off his jacket, started warming up. All the scheming in the world came down to one thing: fists. And he was about to take a head to prove it.
…
March 9 — Trump Plaza, 43rd floor hallway. 2 a.m. Lights harsh and white.
Victor's door got pounded like it owed money. Ethan was breaking down Fujimoto's fight tape on the VCR—he knew he needed time to grow, so he was locked in.
Through the peephole: badges glinting.
He unlatched the chain—six people in anti-doping agency uniforms shoved in.
"International Boxing Federation—surprise drug test."
The lead woman—Asian-looking—flashed ID. Her sleeve revealed a Mitsubishi cufflink.
Two goons behind her grabbed Victor in his robe. He didn't fight. The last guy bolted to the bathroom, rifling the medicine cabinet like he'd rehearsed it.
"Bullshit! WADA rules say fly-by tests end at 11 p.m.!"
Ethan body-blocked the blood draw, but saw the vials: Yokohama Life Science Institute—Fujimoto family-owned lab.
Camera flashes exploded outside the window. Across the street, rooftop—paparazzi lenses glinting.
Meanwhile, in Atlantic City's top members-only bar, Fujimoto smashed a whiskey glass in front of a Citibank exec.
Amber liquid splashed the guy's $8,000 suit, mixing with the Daily News front page: Victor looking like a don, Fujimoto like a punk.
"This your play? Lame! Should've hired gunmen!"
The exec didn't flinch. "Mr. Fujimoto, America's a nation of laws—not yakuza Japan. This suit's eight grand. Check's on you."
Fujimoto glared, powerless.
Trump's call came at 3:17 a.m.
Victor stared at the toilet—third forced urine sample—while the satellite phone picked up Mar-a-Lago background noise.
"Citibank Asia president called me direct,"
Trump's voice cut in. "That Japanese kid's uncle holds three of our subprime bonds—you know what those are, right?"
Ethan snatched the phone: "They drew 200cc of blood! That ain't standard!"
Silence. Then the sound of a checkbook flipping.
"Tell Victor: win."
Victor's eyes could've killed.
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