The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

This wasn't a pick-up or drop-off after a business meeting; it was a combat team that had just been withdrawn from a firefight.

"Victor, you fucking played beautifully!"

Franky suddenly leaned closer, and Victor could smell the whiskey and gunpowder in his breath. "That Russian guy, damn, he can still get up after injecting a whole vial. Four girls couldn't drain him, but you could splatter his brains on the wall with one punch!"

Jason shifted uneasily: "We agreed it was just to fight a boxing match!"

"and then?"

Franky suddenly lowered his voice, his smile vanishing. "White's methods are truly ruthless. This time, the Irish lost the majority of their money! Nearly a million dollars, enough for more than a month's income for us."

The carriage became so quiet that you could hear the hum of the air conditioning vents.

Victor placed his hands on his knees to make sure everyone could see his movement, then slowly pulled open the canvas bag that White had given him.

Inside were bundles of loose change.

Five-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, and even rolls of coins wrapped in tape. Victor's heart sank—White, that old fox, said he had ten thousand, but there were no rules here.

Unfortunately, the principles were previously in White's hands.

He began counting the money discreetly, his fingers deftly flipping through the banknotes in the bumpy carriage.

He slapped a wad of cash onto Jason and Michael's thighs respectively, saying, "The agreed-upon ten percent."

Franky whistled: "A gentleman."

Viktor continued counting, sorting out ten stacks of hundred-yuan bills from a pile of crumpled banknotes, and then pulling out a stack of ten-yuan bills at the bottom.

He handed these to Franky: "Thank Third Master for me. The brothers have worked hard."

The banknotes hung in the air, but Franky didn't catch them.

His expression turned strange, as if he was trying to suppress a not-so-funny joke.

"Third Master said,"

Franky slowly shook his head. "If you're going to make it big, the brothers can take it. As for Third Master's, he said this time it's to do you, Victor, a favor."

The car rolled over the speed bump, and the stack of money trembled in Victor's hand.

He felt an invisible hand gripping his throat—in the gangsters' dictionary, 'favors' were a more terrifying debt than loan sharks.

The guy who owed Third Master a favor last time is now serving as breakfast, lunch, dinner, and an apartment for the fish at the bottom of the lake.

"Please thank Third Master for me."

Viktor heard his own voice coming from a very far place. "Third Master helped me, even though I knew it was a trap, you still have to say thank you."

Franky grinned, revealing a gold tooth, and said meaningfully, "No rush, Third Master has a good memory."

As the convoy entered the tunnel, darkness swallowed the expressions on everyone's faces.

Viktor looked at his blurry reflection in the car window and remembered his father's dying words:

When you owe money to the mob, they take everything from you;

When you owe a favor to the mob, they take away your bottom line.

The coins rattled softly in the canvas bag, like a stopwatch ticking down. Victor's heart sank, and gradually an idea surfaced.

Before long, Franky drove the three of them to the outskirts of Uncle Joe's house. The three got out of the car, and Franky waved and shouted, "Say goodnight to the old man!" before driving off.

Victor looked at him: "He's still living outside?"

"Dad won't let him live at home."

Michael shrugged: "Who told him to be stuck in the mob now?"

"Don't worry."

Jason looked around the room: "Franky's son is still at home, so Big Brother can rest easy."

Victor suddenly asked, "When are you two planning to move out?"

Uncle Joe has four children. The eldest, Franky, is twenty-one years old. Jason and Michael are twins, the same age as Victor, both eighteen. The youngest is Lamar, who is just over four years old and still very young.

Jason glanced at Victor: "What do you want to do?"

"I'll be participating in the South District Thug Boxing Tournament in about a week."

Victor extended an invitation: "Do you guys have any ideas? For example, how about making some money to rent an apartment, squeeze in here, and not even be able to shout when you bring your girlfriend back?"

Michael scratched his head: "Why can't I shout?"

Jason covered his mouth. "A deal worth $10,000 isn't very common. The betting pools in the South are all small, and this time there are only heavyweight and light heavyweight matches, so we won't make much money in total."

"Isn't the first place winner $50,000?"

Michael's outspokenness left Victor speechless: "I'm not one of those black guys who became boxing champions right from the start. I'm just a fat guy, currently on a diet and likely to remain so for a long time to come, a bar boxer."

"It's good to know!"

Jason called to Michael, "Let's go back!"

Victor extended another invitation: "If you want to make money, meet me at the Allebi Bar at seven o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I'll be there for fifteen minutes."

······

Why did he buy me a drink?

"They invited us."

"Okay, I'll put it again, why did he buy us drinks?"

"He needs to rise to power."

"Get on top? What does that mean? Does he think it was shameful to have Fiona on top that night? Good heavens, with his weight... Damn it, that fat pig Victor actually slept with Fiona!!"

"Enough! Can't you use your brain for once?! Don't talk about this anymore!"

"Why? Almost everyone heard it that night, and Xiao Kai, who almost called the police, was persuaded to go home by his father."

"Going back to the previous question, what I meant by taking over is that he now needs helpers and support."

"What do you mean?"

"Where is he now?"

“A student at Foucault Boxing Gym, paying his own way.”

"Yes, if he wants a coach or agent to help him, who should he go to? Card players won't pay any attention to him; only those who are desperate will!"

"You mean?"

"Damn, no wonder this guy was able to sleep with Fiona, he's ruthless!"

"Does that matter?"

"I can't sleep, I feel terrible."

"Remember to close the window after you climb out."

"I'm not going. That bitch found a guy named Mark with half a head."

"The one Viktor beat up?"

“Give me a hundred dollars, and within two days I will take nude photos of them and then give you the negatives.”

"Ninety! You know, cameras are expensive."

"I just paid for three months' worth of food and room fees, and I have 110 yuan left."

"Fifty, and the remaining sixty will last you just enough for another month."

"You're really ruthless."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Chapter 14 Training Summary and Boldness and Impatience

At 1:30 p.m. the next day, Victor Lee was already standing at the entrance of Foucault's boxing gym.

The autumn wind had already picked up, and it was no longer hot at noon. The wind, carrying moisture, scraped his face like a knife, but he didn't move an inch, only rubbing his calloused hands.

"You're here really early. I always feel like this old man doesn't fit in with you. If I remember correctly, you seemed to have been beaten up pretty badly yesterday, but today you only have a few bruises."

Old Jack's voice came from behind him. He was holding a bunch of keys, which clinked together.

Victor turned around and saw old Jack wearing a faded blue tracksuit, a white towel around his neck, and his hair neatly combed.

"We won! I'm so excited I can't take a nap."

Viktor answered briefly, his voice carrying a hint of the excitement he felt after last night's victory.

Old Jack unlocked the door, and the iron gate creaked loudly.

He turned on the light, and the dim yellow light illuminated the dilapidated boxing gym.

The posters on the wall have yellowed; they are photos of boxing championship matches from who-knows-how-many years ago.

The air was filled with the mixed smells of sweat, leather, and disinfectant.

Victor went straight to the locker room, took an envelope from his backpack containing five hundred dollars—his entire savings.

"Six months,"

He handed the envelope to old Jack, "Starting today."

"That's all the money?"

Old Jack didn't take the envelope immediately. Instead, he stared into Victor's eyes for a few seconds and said, "Do you know what five hundred dollars can do in the South? You can buy a decent gun, or have three thugs break someone's legs for you. My going rate isn't that low. Five hundred dollars will get me at most two months of training, and only two hours a day, because you're not worth anything yet."

"I need a coach, not a gun."

Viktor held the envelope steadily in his hand. "I won last night's game by a fluke."

"You are self-aware."

Old Jack finally took the envelope and casually stuffed it into his pocket:

He snorted, "That Soviet idiot was probably sweating buckets on prostitutes two hours before the match, and had taken enough stimulants to knock out a horse. You won because he didn't even have the strength to stand up straight, he was a step too slow, and then you took him down."

Victor did not refute, but simply began wrapping his wrists with bandages.

He moved slowly, making sure each lap was just right.