September 5, 1985. Trump Plaza Hotel, Atlantic City. The heat in here was thick—like money, cheap cologne, expensive cologne, and pure greed all rolled into one sticky mess pressing down on everyone crammed into this glittering cage.
The spotlights burned like hot needles, slicing through cigar smoke and pinning everything to that tiny, violent square in the center of the ring.
The air buzzed with a low, hungry growl from the crowd—bloodlust and instant gratification on tap.
Backstage hallways were cold and damp, reeking of sweat, leather, and straight-up fear.
Victor leaned against the icy cinder-block wall, listening to the roar outside—like a tidal wave crashing for Mike Tyson, for the beast about to be unleashed.
And his fight? For the first time ever, it was booked after Tyson. The main event got turned into the opener.
Officially, it was "equal pay, equal rounds, two stars shining bright."
Everyone knew the truth. This was Donald Trump—the guy front row tonight, hair like golden armor—cooking up one of his weird ideas.
He wanted contrast. Upside-down billing. Rage. Arguments. He wanted to crank the heat between Victor and Tyson to eleven, then cash in.
Tyson's rage had already been delivered loud and clear—through his manager's trash-talk and the way he damn near crushed a reporter's shoulder in the parking lot this morning.
"Victor ain't fit to shine my shoes! Undercard? That's charity!"
Tyson's words still echoed.
Victor closed his eyes, sucked in a breath. The cold air stabbed his lungs.
He got it. It was all show. Trump wanted the pre-fight drama. Business.
And yeah, he and Tyson both knew the script.
But those words still hit like poisoned ice—right in the one spot nobody touches.
Who wouldn't want a shot at peak Tyson?
Especially when you've got your own heavyweight belt in the closet.
"Your turn, Victor!"
The door flew open. The noise slammed into him like a freight train.
Spotlights swallowed him whole—nothing but blinding white and a sea of blurred black faces below.
Victor threw both fists skyward, pumping for the crowd—he'd bet another half-million on himself tonight.
The ref rattled off the rules like a robot; the noise shredded every word.
Across the ring stood Héctor Mercedes—a black tower, nearly six-foot-six, arms so long they looked unfair. Eyes hidden deep under that heavy brow, unreadable.
Bell!
Victor moved—light on his feet, flicking out a jab like a snake tongue.
Mercedes framed up perfect, textbook tight.
Fist met arms—thud. The tower didn't budge.
Those long arms whipped back—once, twice—sneaky shots slipping around Victor's guard, nailing him right in the solar plexus.
"Ugh!"
The pain wasn't just sharp—it stole his breath, locked up his abs.
In that split second, Victor knew: all the talk yesterday about Mercedes being "off," the rumors of doubt—it was all a setup.
Boo birds started chirping in the crowd, growing into a wave.
They paid big money for knockouts, for blood—not some dancing monkey bouncing off a brick wall.
Victor's eyes flicked to the priciest seats ringside.
Trump was grinning ear-to-ear, leaning over to the mountain of muscle next to him—Tyson—pointing casually at the ring.
Tyson threw his head back and laughed like a hyena, shoulders shaking, shaking his head like he was watching a clown show. Took a big swig from his glass.
That image burned into Victor's brain like a branding iron.
Mercedes fed off the vibe, got cocky—followed the body shot with a lazy combo.
Now.
Victor dipped low—not far, just enough—head slip so fast it left an afterimage.
Mercedes's haymaker sailed over his hair.
Coming up, Victor twisted every ounce of power into one vicious coil. Right hand came up from hell—no fancy stuff, just pure destruction—and buried itself in Mercedes's right kidney.
Not loud. Just a sick, dull thump that made teeth hurt.
"ARRGHHH!!!!"
Mercedes froze. Eyes bugged out. Mouth opened in a scream that didn't even sound human—high-pitched, twisted, awful.
His huge frame folded like someone yanked out every bone, or like a shrimp dropped in boiling oil. He crashed sideways, face smacking the canvas, body jerking like he was being electrocuted. Tears, snot, drool—everything pouring out.
Front row, Trump's grin vanished. That scream made him flinch hard, hands shooting to his ears, leaning back with a grimace like he smelled something rotten.
Ref dove in, started the count.
Sweat, blood, and lights swirled in Mercedes's unfocused eyes.
His body spasmed like a fish on dry land—every twitch ripping fresh pain from his side.
But he slammed a glove down, pushed up—shaking—and actually stood. Victor couldn't believe it.
Mouthpiece came out with a glob of bloody foam, splat on the mat.
He threw up a wobbly guard, vision swimming, arms like wet noodles.
Victor gave him nothing.
Zero mercy.
The bell ending the count was a hunting horn.
Victor charged like a shark smelling blood—no hesitation.
His fists stopped being technical. They turned into a primal metal storm, hammering down on the broken man just trying to curl up.
Commentators lost their minds: "Here it comes! The Chicago Typewriter unleashing hell!"
Most punches thudded into forearms—dull, heavy bangs.
Some grazed the head and missed.
But buried in the chaos was one loaded right hook—every pound of Victor's body behind it.
It ripped through the mess, clean and cold. Time stretched.
Then it chopped into Mercedes's completely exposed left brow.
CRACK!
Not a thud. A wet, sharp pop—skin splitting wide open.
A deep gash exploded. Blood didn't drip—it sprayed, painting half his face red in a second.
Fight over.
Ref panicked, tackled Victor with his whole body, screaming for the medics.
Cameras flashed like machine guns, freezing the carnage.
The arena went dead silent—everyone stunned by the sheer brutality.
One second. Then the place erupted louder than ever—shock, awe, pure primal fire. Violence in its rawest form always hits deepest.
Victor's chest heaved like broken bellows. Sweat poured off his hair, streamed into eyes burning with rage and kill-lust. Stung like hell.
Didn't care.
Ref raised his blood-soaked glove. Victory.
The arm felt weightless—like he'd climbed out of a pit straight into the sun.
But then his eyes locked on Mercedes being helped up—guy clutching his face, couldn't even stand straight.
Victor saw clear: just a cut. The rest was pain breaking his spirit. Dude's soul left the building.
Disgust flooded Victor.
Some idiot reporter—probably from Tyson's camp, or just chasing clicks—shoved a mic over the ropes.
"Victor! Tyson said you don't deserve the main event—any response? Does this win prove—"
Victor lunged, snatched the mic like he was stealing a purse.
Cold plastic, heavy in his hand.
Whole arena went quiet. Every lens zoomed in.
Victor lifted his sweat-drenched face. Eyes like ice blades, locked on Tyson—whose face had gone storm-cloud dark.
Corner of Victor's mouth curled—no warmth, just steel.
"I heard…"
His voice rasped through the PA, rough from battle but crystal clear.
"…somebody thinks Victor Li, the bad man from Chicago…"
He paused, letting the tension cook.
"…only good enough to warm up the crowd for certain people?"
Every word a bullet—cold, slow, slamming into the walls.
CRACK!
From Tyson's direction—a sharp snap.
His thick hand had crushed the glass. Whiskey and blood dripped through his fingers onto his fancy suit and velvet seat.
Face black as thunder, muscles twitching, staring like he wanted to eat Victor alive.
"Victor! You wanna fight me or what?"
"Dodge your spotlight?"
Victor snorted, tossed the mic to the canvas—CLANG.
"Name the date."
Tyson stepped forward: "Right here, right now!"
Victor lifted his chin: "Next next fight."
"Done!"
Victor didn't look at anyone else. Shoved past the swarm of officials, ripped off his gloves, let them drop heavy.
Hopped down from the ring, soaked in sweat, blood, and leftover murder-vibes.
Crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Spotlights chased him a few steps, then gave up and died.
He left the chaos behind—Tyson's burning glare, Trump's shocked-then-thoughtful smirk, the whole screaming zoo—swallowed by darkness.
Footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. One. Two. Strong. Sure.
…
"Victor! You serious, man? You are wild!"
"Mike, I'm fighting you for real. Full throttle."
"Shit! For a second I thought you actually hated me!"
"Mike, we both need the spotlight. We need the heat nuclear. Trump's the best at this—let him cook."
"October 25th?"
"October 25th."
"I'm hitting the press conference in a minute and I'm gonna talk so much trash about you."
"Same here."
"I just pictured them finding this in my journal years from now and I'm cracking up."
"Mike, don't write a journal."
"Why not?"
"Real ones don't keep diaries."