Jimmy pushed open the oak door and stepped aside to let Blair in.
Victor stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, Atlantic City's neon jungle sprawling behind him like a tapestry stitched with cash and ambition.
No small talk. He cut straight to it.
"Blair," Victor said, turning around, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey glass. "Let's talk real. What's the actual state of American finance right now? And Donald Trump—everybody's buzzing about him. Is he standing on granite… or quicksand?"
Blair adjusted his tie, choosing his words carefully.
He painted the picture of a slow-motion disaster:
The savings-and-loan crisis wasn't just coming—it was already here, a superstorm brewing since the late '70s.
Congress had ripped down the guardrails with the 1980 and 1982 Acts, unleashing S&Ls into the Wild West of commercial real estate and junk bonds.
"This isn't just a crisis," Blair said, voice heavy with exhaustion. "It's systemic rot. FSLIC insurance created the perfect moral hazard—managers gambling with taxpayer money. Win? Hookers and blow. Lose? Flip burgers. Lose big? Empire State Building. Twin Towers raining debt."
He explained how Volcker's brutal rate hikes killed the old S&L profit model, and how the commercial real estate bubble popped, leaving ghost towers and billions in bad loans.
"Over 500 institutions are already gone. Worst since the Great Depression. And it's draining the economy's blood. Credit crunch is just the beginning."
Victor listened in silence, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
When Blair finished, Victor's eyes sharpened. "And Trump? What's his role in this swamp?"
Blair paused, sketching the New Yorker's rise: inherited wealth, fame, and hustle. The gleaming Trump Tower. The renovated Grand Hyatt. The roaring Atlantic City casinos.
He packaged himself as the Midas of The Art of the Deal—a tabloid-and-finance superhero.
"But Wall Street knows," Blair said, cutting deep, "his empire's built on leverage. Airlines, football, casinos… banks throw money at him not because the books are clean, but because of Daddy's name and his own brand halo. Classic greed illusion: look like a winner, and the cash keeps flowing."
"Even his most profitable casino? He's walking a tightrope. All that shine, Victor—it's a mirage. We all know it won't last."
Finally, almost with pity: "If he's trying to get your money in? Don't. It's a con."
The room went quiet.
Victor paced to the desk, set down his glass, and leaned on the polished mahogany.
"I get it."
He looked up—no shock, just predator focus. "Guys like him, all flash and noise? Their foundations are weak. When the storm hits, the tallest trees break first. I want to know—when does he fall? Or better yet… when he's at his lowest, how much to buy Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino out of the wreckage?"
Blair and Jimmy exchanged a stunned look.
They were rattled by Victor Li's nose for blood in the water. A chill ran through them.
"Victor, your current profits won't even get you in the door. This isn't a couple million."
Blair took a breath, letting the number hang heavy in the silence.
"Even at his most desperate, to pick up the shiniest crown from the ashes… you'd need at least…"
He paused for effect.
"One hundred million dollars. And that's just the entry ticket. Trump's always wanted his gambling empire!"
---
After the meeting, Victor's edge hadn't dulled.
He leaned back in the leather sofa, fingers drumming the armrest—tap, tap, tap.
"Blair," he said suddenly, voice steady for a 20-year-old boxer. "Take the $2.21 million in my account. All of it. Buy Nike."
Blair's groomed brow arched. "All of it? That's most of what you just made from the last fight."
"Exactly. I'm keeping a million to bet on myself winning the next one."
Victor stood, muscles shifting under his shirt. "Nike just signed that North Carolina kid, Michael Jordan. I've studied the chart. This is the play."
He walked to the window, watching New York's lights flicker on. "You handle the trade. Sell when it's right. I trust your call. This is a long hold."
Blair nodded, jotting it down sharp and clean.
He knew Victor was young—but his business instincts were animal.
Victor, meanwhile, stepped into another war.
The gym smelled of sweat, leather, and dreams.
Ethan adjusted the heavy bag. Frankie wiped down gloves. Old Jack muttered over the tactics board.
When Victor walked in, all three looked up.
"Mercedes data's in."
Old Jack slapped a stack of papers against Victor's chest. "6'6", 84-inch reach, 225 pounds. Classic power puncher. Slow feet."
Victor scanned it while wrapping his hands, eyes lingering on the "vs. Tyson" line: Round 1, 1:47, KO loss.
"Tyson broke his jaw," Frankie said, handing over a water bottle. "But that's old news, Victor. Don't sleep on him."
Victor flashed back to the bloodbath with "Razor" Radok.
One split-second lapse—Radok's uppercut had sent stars exploding behind his eyes.
In that moment, he'd seen the reaper grinning.
"I won't."
His voice rumbled from deep in his chest. "Fighting Radok taught me—one second of distraction on that canvas, and you're done."
Training turned brutal.
Victor ran in 110-degree heat. Punched underwater in a custom tank. Drilled footwork until Frankie's whip cracked like a metronome.
Nights, he watched Mercedes fight tape until his eyelids needed toothpicks to stay open.
One midnight, he hit pause. Frame froze on Mercedes winding up a left hook.
"See that?" Victor said. "Every time he throws the left hook, his right foot shifts half an inch."
Old Jack leaned in, cloudy eyes lighting up. "Damn, you're right!"
Frankie glanced over, proud. "You're getting it. But that's bait. Next comes the hook."
Days bled into sweat and strategy.
September 4th—weigh-in. Flashbulbs popped like daylight.
Mercedes stepped into the room and the crowd stirred. Taller than on tape. Skin gleaming under the lights.
But shockingly—the man the press called "The Beast" just quietly stepped on the scale. Didn't even look at Victor.
When the host tried to spark the usual staredown, Mercedes went through the motions like a robot, then retreated behind his promoter.
Victor raised an eyebrow.
In boxing, weigh-in mind games were standard.
He took two steps closer. Mercedes instinctively stepped back.
Victor didn't push it.
"What the hell," he muttered on the walk back to the locker room. "Guy's docile as a lamb."
Michael, cigarette dangling, snorted. "Tyson didn't just break his ribs—he broke his soul. Word is, Trump had to drag him out for this fight. He didn't want it. Only showed up for the purse—and get this, his is half yours. Fifty grand!"
Victor paused tying his shoes.
He remembered his own pro debut—back in July. Cocky as hell. Thought he'd conquer the world.
Holding Radok to nine rounds? That was proof he could.
Old Jack chimed in:
"What's so strange? You guys are all like that. One rifle, and you'd take on the world. Beat us, the Soviets, the Indians—hell, I'd believe it if you said you'd land on the moon."
Victor laughed. Just an old vet with post-war syndrome.
The locker room TV blared sports news. Nike's stock ticker scrolled upward.
"Old Jack, what do you think of Nick?"
The old man looked up. "6'2", 260 pounds, explosive, decent stamina. But I don't like his chances."
"Why?"
"No fire. Doesn't know what he's fighting for. Even told me when he rolled with Carl, money wasn't an issue. Doesn't care about cash."
Victor nodded. "Alright. I'll ask him what he does want. Then we turn it into our thing."
He glanced at Michael. "Tell Blair—don't sell yet."
"You sure? We're already up 1.5%."
Victor looked out the window. Neon pulsed in the dark.
"Sometimes, confidence hits harder than a fist. And confidence? That needs capital to back it."
He finished wrapping his hands. Knuckles bulged under the gauze like a leopard ready to pounce.
He was choosing victory—one fight at a time.