Mike Tyson hit the canvas, mouthpiece flying.
"HOLY—!"
The crowd erupted, jaws dropping.
The untouchable Tyson—knocked down!
And by Victor, a guy known for raw power, not slick footwork!
Up in the stands, Trump lurched forward, eyes bulging behind his glasses, probably muttering, "Unbelievable!" under his breath.
But then that showman's grin spread across his face—he smelled drama. Didn't care who won in three rounds.
This fight? Worth every damn ticket.
The ref jumped in, starting the count. Victor, pacing behind, was cursing a blue streak: "Come on, you mother—count faster!"
But Tyson? No daze in those eyes—just pure, animal rage.
Didn't even wait for "3." He sprang up like a coiled spring, head shaking, locking onto Victor with a stare that could burn holes.
Knocked down?
To Mike Tyson, that was the ultimate disrespect. And disrespect demanded blood—fast and brutal.
Fight back on.
Victor wanted to press, but Tyson's speed and that feral glare stopped him cold.
The air was thick with menace—last time Victor felt this was when he crushed Max Wilson.
Tyson didn't give a second for either of them to breathe.
Victor stepped in, and Tyson exploded.
A lightning-fast bob-and-weave dodged Victor's jab. Then Tyson shot forward like a cannonball, closing the gap.
His body coiled tight, every ounce of fury and power funneled into his right arm.
An uppercut—blazing fast, heavy enough to split the air.
It threaded the needle through the tiny gap in Victor's guard, slamming his chin like a sledgehammer.
"Ugh!"
Victor barely got out a grunt—pain choked the rest. His triple-chin armor? Useless.
It didn't feel like a fist. More like a steel mallet swinging up from hell.
The force nearly lifted him off his feet. He stumbled back, brain buzzing, vision flickering with white sparks and creeping black. The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum.
The world spun. Only instinct and his iron core kept him upright. His back slammed the ropes, their springy rebound saving him from a second fall.
Dizziness hit like a tidal wave.
His world rocked—ears filled with his own ragged breathing and a heartbeat like a war drum.
But those icy flames in his eyes? Still burning. The pain, the humiliation, the hunger to win—it all fueled a fire hotter than ever.
He clamped his mouthpiece, shook his lead-heavy head, and forced his blurry gaze back to the killing machine stalking him.
Ref rushed in: "Victor, you need to stop?"
Victor snapped, shoving him off: "Screw you! Don't mess with my fight!"
Trembling fists came up, shaky but stubborn, guard locked in.
Tyson closed in like a terminator, ready to end it.
His combos came like a hurricane—Victor could only turtle up, taking brutal shots to arms, shoulders, ribs. Each hit shook him to the bone, but he stayed up.
Trump was glued to the action, swaying with every blow. He loved this—raw, ugly power. Loved Tyson's eye-for-an-eye viciousness. Very Trump: hit back twice as hard.
Still, he was stunned Victor was still standing.
As Tyson wound up for what could've been the kill shot—
DING! DING! DING!
Second round over. Bell rang like a gift from God, cutting the carnage short.
In his corner, ice water splashed Victor's face. His coach's voice buzzed, but all he heard was his own heaving lungs and the dull ache in his jaw where Tyson's devil punch had landed.
Dark spots flickered at the edges of his vision, but his heart pounded strong, shoving oxygen to his brain, clawing him back to clarity.
"He's gassing!" Frankie yelled, all encouragement. "You can take him! He can't take you!"
Across the ring, Tyson's corner was a war zone.
The lion roared low, his coach pressing hard on a fresh cut above his eye.
Tyson's stare burned into Victor—not as an opponent, but as a blasphemer who dared tarnish his "invincible" aura.
That clean shot Victor landed? More than pain—it was a challenge to his throne.
DING!
Third round.
Tyson didn't probe. He launched like black lightning, feet quick and explosive.
He was here to crush this upstart. Couldn't believe this guy—who bragged about going 15 rounds—was this tough. Weren't his fists heavy enough?
Every scrub before went down in one!
Weak sauce!
Combos rained—left hook to the ribs, right straight to the head, then a nasty liver shot.
Victor switched gears.
No more trading blows. Arms tight to his head, elbows in, he let his broad lats and delts eat the punishment.
Tyson's fists thudded into his arms and shoulders—dull, terrifying bangs like hammering rubber-coated steel.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
Each shot could've floored a regular heavyweight. Victor kept giving ground, back hitting the ropes, bouncing back.
The crowd's gasps and screams blended into a wall of noise.
But Victor didn't break.
Tyson's fists drilled like jackhammers, but years of hauling heavy loads had forged Victor to take pain no one else could.
Victor was more than just a big guy—he was a damn tank!
He bit down, feeling the shockwaves spread through his padded skin and reinforced bones. It rattled his organs, stole his breath, but nothing broke.
Fourth round.
Trump couldn't sit still in his box, yanking at his tie, the silk crumpled in his fist.
Tyson's onslaught was a storm—every Victor retreat pumped Trump's heart with glee. Every time Victor ate a shot and stayed up? Like swallowing a fly.
His profits were evaporating by the second!
He roared silently at the ring: "Go down, you damn yellow pig! Fall!"
Mid-fourth round, the storm cracked—just a hairline, almost invisible.
Maybe Tyson's gas tank dipped from the relentless output. Maybe sweat and blood stung his right eye.
His right straight came out slow, pullback high.
That was enough.
For Victor, that tiny gap was a bolt of lightning in the dark!
A fire—locked tight under adrenaline—exploded.
As Tyson's punch grazed his ear, Victor's stonewall left arm moved.
Not to block—to strike.
Like a viper coiled too long, it shot out—precise, vicious, no warning.
A straight, packed with every ounce of strength and timing, detonated on Tyson's bleeding brow cut!
"Ugh!"
A choked grunt.
Tyson's head snapped back. Pain exploded from the wound, blurring his vision with tears and freezing him for a fatal second!
Now!
A once-in-a-lifetime shot!
Victor's right leg drove into the canvas like a piston. His core twisted, channeling leg power, rotation, every last drop of juice into the next blow.
A heavy right swing arced deadly, slipping past Tyson's pain-raised guard, slamming into his left ribcage!
THUD!
A sickening sound—close enough for front-row fans to hear something like wood groaning before it snaps. Muscle, organs, bones taking a brutal hit.
Tyson's face twisted—not anger, but raw, crippling pain.
His body curled inward like a shrimp in boiling water. The agony stole his breath, stopped his attack cold.
He staggered back, desperate for distance, breathing shattered—each inhale a knife in his ribs.
Victor's eyes flashed like a predator's. He surged forward, ready to chain combos and seal the deal!
"Back! BACK!"
The ref jumped between them, shoving Victor off, giving Tyson a lifeline.
Victor lost it, spitting venom at the ref: "You blind bastard! He's still up! He's not down! I took his bombs—where were you? Let me finish this!"
His corner screamed bloody murder below.
But the ref didn't budge.
The moment was gone when the bell rang.
"Fifth round! Listen! His ribs are cracked! Every breath hurts!"
His coach pressed an ice pack to Victor's swollen jaw, yelling in his ear: "Pressure him! Keep pressing! No breaks! Hit the body! Body! Make him drop!"
Victor chugged an energy drink, sweat pouring off him like a river, muscles twitching from the brutal pace.
"My jaw's trashed! My ribs are probably cracked too!"
His eyes cut like blades to Tyson's corner. "Michael, tell Ethan—this ref's dirty! I'm gonna wreck him!"
But he saw Tyson's team in panic mode, saw Tyson wince sitting down.
Victory was close. He could taste it.
Across the ring, Tyson's corner was a funeral.
"Mike! Breathe! Slow, damn it!"
His coach jammed a Q-tip into the split brow, desperate to stop the bleeding. The medic poked at his ribs.
Tyson swatted away the smelling salts, letting out a low, dangerous growl—like a speared beast.
Pain didn't scare him. That growl carried rage and wildness that made his team flinch.
He didn't need pity. He needed to unleash that searing pain.
Ringside, Trump tugged his loud red tie, leaning so close he was practically in the ring.
He'd just seen that monster shot, and his face wasn't worried—it was lit with manic glee.
"Wow! Incredible! What a punch!" he shouted to whoever was nearby, half-commentating, half-covering his bets.
He'd been Team Tyson, but now? Gotta ride the winner: "Told you! Victor's got a cold-blooded heart! Seized that one-percent chance! That's top-tier!"
That's business.
When Tyson stumbled back, Trump smacked the seat in front: "It's over! Might be over! Tyson's done! Ribs are broke—bet on it!"
He was already celebrating this "upset legend" fight he'd helped promote, face glowing with anticipation for the dramatic finish and pride in his "eye" for talent.
For the right price, he'd cheer anyone in the fifth.