Victor Lee lay on the training room massage table, taking slow, careful breaths.
That August 15 slugfest with Razor Radok had cost him big—cracked jaw, three cracked ribs. Docs said six weeks minimum to heal.
But right now? Air flowed into his lungs smooth as butter. No pain.
"Iron bones?"
He muttered, fingers brushing his ribcage.
What used to be purple bruises was now just faint yellow marks.
The door swung open. Frankie strode in with two sports drinks. "Hey, kid—how you feeling today? Still sore?"
The veteran coach's tone dripped skepticism.
Victor sat up, rolling his shoulders. "Honestly? Doesn't hurt at all."
Frankie snorted, tossing him a bottle. "Yeah, right. Cracked bones healed in ten days? What are you, Wolverine?"
He stepped closer, clapping Victor's shoulder. "Look, I know you want that September 5 fight with Mercedes, but lying ain't helping."
"I'm not lying."
Victor frowned, pulling up his tank to show his ribs. "See for yourself."
Frankie squinted. His calloused fingers pressed along the bone.
When Victor didn't flinch, Frankie's face went from doubt to holy crap. "This… this ain't possible. Wolverine's fake!"
"I told you guys."
Victor hopped off the table, throwing a few quick punches—zero lag.
"Wait here—I'm grabbing Old Jack and Ethan."
Frankie bolted. Minutes later, he dragged in the other coaches.
Old Jack hauled in Michael. Michael brought a hospital doc with a portable ultrasound.
Half an hour later, the doctor yanked off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "I'll be damned. The bones aren't just healed—they're…"
He pointed at the screen. "Here—bone density and thickness way above normal."
Ethan whistled. "Kid's a medical freak."
"I've always been like this!"
Victor thought to himself—it was the Iron Bones ability.
Ever since he started training, his body had changed. Bones denser than steel. Now? Injuries healed at warp speed.
Combined with his freak nutrient absorption, he was recovering ten times faster than a regular guy.
"We need to tell the insurance company—get a full workup."
Old Jack said it dead serious.
Next day, Michael escorted Victor to Atlantic City's Church Hospital for the full scan.
The radiologist stared at the X-rays, brow furrowed.
"Mr. Lee, this defies medical science. Per your prior records, those injuries needed six weeks just to start healing. But now…"
He tapped the film. "Not only fully healed—your bone structure's stronger than before the fight."
Michael's sharp eyes flicked to Victor. "Anything you wanna say?"
Victor shrugged. "I just heal fast."
Leaving the hospital, Michael pulled him aside. "Listen—whatever your secret is, it's a good thing. Doc cleared you for the September 5 fight."
He paused. "By the way—what about that invite from Ivana Trump?"
Victor glanced at Michael. "Not sure it's a smart move."
Michael sighed, pulling a gold-embossed card from his briefcase. "Trump Casino Hotel execs want to meet—talk 'business.' Jimmy says it's a big opportunity."
Victor suddenly remembered the card he'd stuffed in his pocket during post-McDonald's sage mode. Hadn't even looked at it.
"Jimmy says the woman's a shark—real power behind Trump Org. Came from nothing, model-turned-mogul. The empire's big because of her."
Victor took the card. Ivana Trump glinted in gold under the sun. "But Jimmy didn't give me advice!"
"Bet return plus pool cut."
Jimmy's voice came from behind—they hadn't noticed him walk up. "Trump Casino wants an exclusive deal. You win—they refund the bets, take a cut of the pool. You get a piece."
Jimmy stepped closer, beady eyes gleaming. "Win-win. They draw crowds. You get extra cash flow. Word is, top fighters get up to 15% of the pool."
Victor frowned. "Sounds like they're using my name to gamble."
"That's business, Victor."
Jimmy clapped his shoulder. "Boxing ain't just the ring—it's the hustle outside it. You're the hot new heavyweight. Power, blood, drama—your market value's skyrocketing. Trump Casino sees dollar signs."
Michael nodded. "Jimmy's right. Plus, ties with Trump Org open doors. They own Atlantic City."
Victor thought it over, then shook his head. "I don't want to lock into a deal like that. Could bite me later. Maybe just taking a flat fee's cleaner."
"Smart. Less entanglement's always better with them."
Jimmy agreed, adding, "We keep it simple. Maybe pitch $300K flat."
Victor nodded. "Alright. Set the meeting."
---
Half a day later, Victor and Jimmy stood in the golden lobby of Trump Casino Hotel.
Crystal chandeliers turned the place into daylight. High-rollers in suits clinked chips like wind chimes.
"Remember,"
Jimmy whispered, "Ivana's no regular suit. Born in Czechoslovakia, grew up behind the Iron Curtain. Moved to Canada, then here. Built it all from scratch. Sharp as hell. Don't let her lead the dance."
Victor nodded, straightening his tie.
He felt more nervous than before a fight—at least in the ring, he knew the rules. Here? It was her home turf.
A black-suited assistant led them to a private elevator—straight to the penthouse.
Doors opened to a massive office. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed all of Atlantic City sparkling at night.
"Mr. Lee—good to see you again. You're looking much better."
A voice with an Eastern European edge.
Ivana Trump rose from behind her desk.
Taller than he expected. Blonde hair in a perfect bun. Blue suit matching razor-sharp blue eyes.
Makeup flawless, but Victor caught the fine lines at her eyes—years of grinding.
"Ms. Trump."
He shook her hand—grip like a vice. Not some pampered princess.
"Please, sit."
She motioned to leather couches in the lounge area.
She poured two whiskeys herself—smooth, practiced. "First—congrats again on beating Razor Radok. I watched the live broadcast. Thrilling."
Victor took the glass. "Thanks. Wasn't easy. Still feel it sometimes."
Ivana smiled. "That's what makes it valuable."
She sipped. "I assume Jimmy explained our proposal?"
Jimmy jumped in. "Rough idea. Bet refunds plus pool cut, right?"
"Exactly."
Ivana slid a file from under the coffee table. "Specifically—when you win fights we designate at our casino, we refund all bets and take 15% of the pool as a service fee. In return, you get 5% of that pool."
Victor frowned.
Ivana's blue eyes flashed. "Given we're eating the refund risk, it's generous. And…"
She leaned forward. "You get a private suite, training facilities, VIP treatment. This isn't just money—it's status."
Jimmy cut in. "Ms. Trump—Victor's the hottest thing in heavyweight right now. And he doesn't scam fans. So—no pool cut, no bet refund deal."
Ivana glanced at Victor, then laughed—light, but knowing. "Is that so? Then why are you here?"
She turned to Victor. "Listen, young man—Trump Casino means elite. Partner with us, your brand jumps a tier. This isn't some two-bit joint."
Victor felt uneasy. Her presence was heavy. Memories stirred—Ivana… something familiar. He looked to Jimmy for backup.
Jimmy cleared his throat. "We get the Trump brand. But Victor's value is exploding. Maybe a middle ground—you pay a flat fee, and Victor fights September 5… for the love of Franklin."
Ivana's eyes widened at Victor. "You're cleared to fight?"
Victor spread his hands. "For three hundred grand."
She stood, walked to the window. "Three hundred it is. Twenty-plus casinos in Atlantic City—but only one Trump. Ball's in your court."
Victor felt the scale tip. He'd won the number—but she still owned the room.
"Three hundred K. I'll finish my last three fights. But I want it in writing—VIP treatment, private training facilities."
Ivana turned, victory smile sharp. "Smart choice."
She hit a button. Assistant walked in. "Draft the contract—per our terms."
After the assistant left, Ivana looked at Jimmy. "Private matter with Mr. Lee."
Victor blinked but nodded. Jimmy stepped out.
Ivana got right to it. "Heard you healed in ten days? Doctors call it a miracle."
Victor's gut tightened. "I just recover fast."
"Interesting."
She studied him, raised her glass. "We've met more than once—but you don't remember me?"
Victor froze. She did feel familiar.
Ivana prompted. "I spent time in Chicago. Saw you at the governor's wife's gala. Watched you fight."
Victor's jaw dropped.
Her eyes cut like ice. She clinked his glass. "Back then? You were nothing. No spark. Now? You're sharp. I'm interested."
As they clinked, Victor caught a glint in her eye—something unreadable. Instinct hit. He said, "If Trump ever cuts you loose, come find me. I'll help you go back to Ivana Marie Zelníčková."
Her eyes narrowed. She just drank.
---
Contract signed, leaving the casino, Jimmy sighed. "We could've pushed for more."
Victor stared at the glowing Trump sign. "It's fine. Just the beginning."
He touched his ribs—zero pain. Grabbed Jimmy's arm:
"Call Blair. Tell him dinner's on me—at Trump Casino Hotel. Fish."