July in Chicago was a scorcher—the kind of heat that made the air in the gym thick enough to choke on.
Victor was shirtless, his bronze skin slick with sweat that gleamed like polished metal under the overhead lights.
His arms had bulked up another full inch, veins snaking across the muscle like rivers on a map.
"One more!"
Old Jack's raspy voice echoed through the gym.
Victor gritted his teeth and lunged at the heavy bag hanging in front of him.
This wasn't regular bag work—he had to wrap both arms around the nearly 200-pound bag, squeeze it like a lover for five full seconds, then shove it away hard and immediately repeat the motion.
"Clinch like a python, push like a spring!"
Frankie coached from the side, stopwatch in hand. "Remember, Radok hates this style. But he's 6'3", with a longer reach than you. This is the only way you're gonna do it!"
Victor's breathing was already ragged, his arms burning from lactic acid buildup.
He'd started this brutal routine on July 25th—500 reps a day, no exceptions.
The strength he'd already built was now on another level, but the price was steep: every night when he got back to his apartment, his hands shook so bad he could barely hold a glass of water.
"Five-minute break, then live sparring."
Old Jack tossed him a towel already soaked from earlier wipe-downs.
Victor collapsed onto the bench in the corner, chugging an entire bottle of electrolyte drink.
His eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall—August 10th circled in red. That was the last day of high-intensity training.
Then five days of tapering, and on the 15th: the fight against "Razor" Radok.
Victor hadn't even heard of Radok until someone told him the guy had been pro since 1980 and never lost. That's when Victor finally stopped taking it lightly.
"You're progressing faster than we thought."
Frankie walked over and handed him a folder. "Fiona just sent this over. Jimmy said you'd wanna see it."
Victor flipped it open with trembling fingers.
Snow Honey Windy City Food Service (SHW) monthly report: 60 food trucks now covered most of Chicago's lower- and middle-income neighborhoods, with a solid customer base around the University of Chicago.
Average profit per truck: $700–$1,000 a month. That meant the company was pulling in about $60,000 in cash flow for him every month.
"Fiona says we can scale to 80 trucks next month," Jimmy had noted at the bottom. "But we'll need more capital."
Victor closed the file, running the numbers in his head.
With this income, he was sitting on close to $900,000 in cash.
Now the question: keep pouring it into the food truck business, or stick to the original plan and invest in Nike and Apple stock?
"What else did Jimmy say?"
His voice came out hoarse from exhaustion.
Frankie shrugged. "Kid says you shouldn't be figuring this out on your own. You need someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Before Victor could reply, Old Jack blew the whistle: "Break's over! Victor, time to spar!"
The next two hours were pure hell.
Victor had to apply everything he'd trained against a live opponent—clinch, pressure, push off, close the distance again.
It looked simple. It wasn't. It required perfect timing and insane stamina.
When it finally ended, Victor collapsed flat on the ring canvas, chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.
"Not bad," Old Jack said, a rare look of approval on his face. "One more week, and your arms'll be thicker than Radok's thighs."
---
August 2nd — Trump Plaza Hotel, Atlantic City — Ocean Restaurant
Victor was in a tailored deep-blue suit, a world away from the sweaty gym rat.
Jimmy sat to his right, fidgeting with his tie. Clearly not used to places this fancy.
"There he is."
Jimmy nodded toward the entrance.
Blair Pafa—the Wall Street washout—was being led to their table by the host.
Early twenties, suit sharp but worn at the edges, crow's feet and slumped shoulders telling the story of recent hard times.
"Pafa," Victor stood and extended a hand. "You made it!"
Blair shook it, eyes flashing with surprise.
He clearly hadn't expected the cocky kid from back then to have come this far.
"Victor," Blair said cautiously. "Gotta be honest—I'm curious why you reached out."
Victor gestured for him to sit. "Let's eat first. Business can wait. I hear the seafood here's the best on the East Coast."
Blair nodded. He didn't wolf his food down, but he ate fast.
Over dinner, Victor was a different guy—charming, sharp, asking Blair about retail trends, economic shifts, even the latest market swings.
Blair opened up:
"I never thought a ballplayer—I mean, Jordan—would go that hard. One year, and he's already hit Nike's three-year sales goals. Stock's exploding. Apple, though? They're toast. No sign of a comeback."
Victor laughed. "That's because Jobs is off making cartoons right now!"
Jimmy cracked up too. When Victor introduced Snow Honey Windy City Food Service (SHW), Jimmy chimed in with operational details—but let Victor run the show.
"So, Victor…" Blair finally asked as dessert arrived. "You looking for investment advice?"
Victor set down his coffee and locked eyes with Blair.
"No, Blair. I want you to be the CEO of SHW."
Blair froze, fork hanging in midair.
"I know you've had a rough go on Wall Street," Victor continued, calm but firm. "That asshole made your life hell. And the 'help' you got? Just kicks while you were down."
He went on: "But Jimmy knows you. You called the fast-food boom in the early '80s—before you even graduated. Just bad timing."
Blair's face twisted. "I was still in school."
"And my research shows," Jimmy cut in, sliding over a folder, "every client who bailed on your advice now regrets it. Here's SHW's last three months."
Blair flipped it open. His pro instincts kicked in immediately—eyes scanning numbers, brows furrowing, nodding.
Victor and Jimmy exchanged a look. They waited.
"Sixty mobile trucks… monopoly around UChicago… stable monthly cash flow… street food!"
Blair muttered, fingers drumming the table. "Have you considered franchising?"
Victor smiled. "That's exactly why we need you."
Blair looked up, a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there in months.
"You know rebuilding a brand takes time. And risk."
"We've got time," Victor said. "And I believe the best comeback isn't going toe-to-toe when they're strongest—it's winning in the way they hate most."
That hit Blair deep.
He looked back at the file, studying it longer this time.
The restaurant lights played across his face as he wrestled with it.
Finally, he closed the folder and took a deep breath.
"I need to see the operation in person. Meet the team. Then I'll decide."
Victor extended his hand. "Tomorrow, 9 a.m.—my car'll pick you up at the hotel. Jimmy'll give you the full tour of Chicago ops all day."
When their hands met again, Blair's grip was stronger than before.
Victor could feel it—the guy was coming back to life.
As they left the restaurant, Jimmy couldn't help asking: "You think he'll take it?"
"Like boxing, Jimmy," Victor said, staring out at the glowing Atlantic City skyline, a grin tugging at his lips. "When you give a man a chance to get back on his feet? Hardly anyone says no."
He added: "Besides—what's he got to lose? They just threw all his stuff out of his New York apartment so someone else could move in."
"Nowhere to go?" Jimmy laughed. "Victor, you're ruthless!"