The crowd was still roaring behind him as Wang stepped off the blood-stained mat. His chest was heaving, sweat running down his neck and back. The ref hadn't even finished calling the TKO before Wang was halfway through the ropes. The guy he'd just flattened—some tattooed thug with more ego than stamina—was still trying to remember what continent he was on.
Three fights in. Three clean wins.
It wasn't even hard anymore.
He grabbed a towel from the rack near the lockers, wiped his face, and was about to slump into the nearest chair when a tap on his shoulder stopped him.
One of the Ratskull bouncers. Big guy. Neck like a barrel and arms covered in old gang ink. Wordless, as always—just jerked his thumb toward the back of the building.
Wang blinked. "Now?"
The bouncer didn't answer.
Rocky stepped in behind him, puffing a cigar and shaking the ash off it like he was flipping someone the bird. "Let's go. When Chungus calls, you don't keep his fat ass waiting."
They followed the bouncer through the chaos of the pub—past howling gamblers, stoned fighters, and a couple of half-naked girls dancing on broken tables. The floor was sticky. The air reeked of cheap smoke and cheaper sweat. Wang's adrenaline was still high, fists still tingling from impact, but he kept his shoulders squared.
They reached the reinforced steel door.
The bouncer gave a knock.
A sliding latch opened—just two suspicious eyes peering through.
Then a click, and the heavy door opened.
Inside?
VIP hell.
Same sickly red lighting. Same cracked leather furniture. But the minibar was stocked with imported shit, not the back-alley swill out front. Gold-trimmed hookah pipes sat on tables. The rug looked like it might've been looted from a Persian palace. And there, in the center of it all, sinking into a massive custom recliner like Jabba the fucking Hutt—
Big Chungus.
Still fat. Still grinning. Still dressed like he thought pinstripes made him classy. A new pair of sunglasses perched on his forehead. Rings on every finger. Two girls draped over him again—one brunette with glossy lips, the other blonde with curves that didn't quit. Both wore dresses too short to sit in and eyes too empty to care.
Chungus lifted a glass of something amber and expensive. "There's my golden goose!"
Wang blinked. "Uh… hey."
Chungus motioned grandly toward the leather armchairs across from him. "Sit the fuck down, both of ya. I don't offer this shit to just anyone."
Rocky lowered himself slowly into the seat, grunting. Wang followed suit, wiping his forehead again.
Chungus gestured to a silver tray on the side table. "Drink. Top-shelf. On the house."
Rocky grabbed one immediately, swirling it in his glass before knocking it back. "Not bad."
Wang took his more cautiously, sipped. It burned less than anything he'd ever had. Smooth. Sharp.
Chungus leaned back, setting his glass on a girl's thigh like she was furniture. "Listen, Wang. I like you. I like your style. That nut-shot you pulled on Marrick? Beautiful. You humiliated him. And the way you floored Razor last week? Chef's kiss."
Wang raised an eyebrow. "Thanks?"
"I want you fighting for me," Chungus said, tapping a sausage finger on the armrest. "Full time. My roster. My crew. You don't need to worry about deals or booking fights. I set 'em up. You show up. Win. Walk out."
"And in return?" Wang asked.
Chungus grinned. "You get a cut—twenty-five percent, no bullshit. More if the pot's big. Booze whenever you want it. Girls, if you're into that. Shit, I'll even throw in some gear upgrades if you keep performing. You'll eat good. Live good."
Wang opened his mouth.
But Rocky beat him to it.
"Twenty-five's a fuckin' insult."
Chungus's grin faltered. "What?"
Rocky leaned forward, cigar clamped between his teeth. "You wanna own his contract? That's ownership. Not a favor. I trained him. He's three for three, and the crowd's eatin' outta his fuckin' hand."
Wang looked between them, surprised. He hadn't seen Rocky this serious in weeks.
Rocky pointed a thick finger. "Forty percent. Non-exclusive. He still trains with me. And I negotiate the cuts for future fights."
Chungus chuckled darkly. "You tryin' to rob me, old man?"
"You robbed yourself when you let the odds run 8-to-1 on him tonight. You know how many people bet on the other guy? Everyone. That payout hurt you, and you still made money."
Chungus leaned back, exhaling slow.
The room was quiet.
Finally, the big man smirked. "Thirty-five."
"Thirty-eight," Rocky said.
"Deal."
Wang blinked. Just like that?
Rocky leaned back, satisfied.
Chungus held out a fat hand toward Wang, all rings and sausage fingers. "So what do you say, metal-fist? You in?"
Wang looked at Rocky. Rocky gave him a small nod.
Wang stood up, reached out, and shook Big Chungus's hand.
The grip was sweaty. Greasy. But firm.
"I'm in," Wang said.
Chungus laughed, slapping his knee. "That's what I fuckin' like to hear!"
He poured another round.
The girls giggled.
The deal was sealed.
And Wang just stepped deeper into the underworld.
Q: What would you do to celebrate a win?