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

Page 42

Pain became the best anesthetic, allowing him to temporarily forget the girls' sweet smiles, smooth bodies, terrible personalities, and cold self.

Veronica arrived during the lunch break.

She limped into the training field, her perfume immediately masking the smell of sweat and rust.

"Victor!"

Her voice was weak and pitiful, "I can't rely on anyone else, so I can only turn to you!"

"Michael, give her a thousand dollars."

Viktor was tying his wrists, not even looking up: "Remember to sign the agreement!"

Veronica was stunned.

The boy who was infatuated with her a month ago, the boy who was passionately pursuing her, how come he doesn't even glance at her now?

She approached the training platform and reached out to touch Viktor's shoulder: "Hey, what's wrong—"

"The money is with Michael."

Victor turned away from her touch, his voice eerily calm, "We're even."

Veronica opened her mouth, and what came out was a devastating blow:

"You did it! You actually did it! You actually ran me over with your car?"

"You're just as cold-blooded as your uncle! And your voice is louder than a Buddha's! You son of a bitch!"

"If you have evidence, hand it over to the police station and let them arrest me!"

Victor retorted firmly: "If you have no evidence, then sign this and get out of here with a thousand dollars!"

Veronica instantly switched to a pitiful look: "Victor..."

Victor watched coldly, stopping old Jack's insults: "How did you get pregnant? I know, I clearly brought one, but you still got pregnant! I can only say the condom was the culprit. It's come to this, a thousand dollars is my final price!"

Veronica ultimately said nothing, took the money, and left.

Old Jack gave a thumbs up: "That's it! We work so hard not to waste time on women. In America, women are readily available if you have the ability!"

The training ground returned to calm, with only the muffled sound of boxing gloves hitting the sandbag.

In the afternoon, old Jack drove Victor to a logging camp on the outskirts of the city.

The cold wind howled, and the bare branches of the trees pointed like bony fingers at the gray sky.

"This is Tom,"

Old Jack nodded to a burly man with a full beard, "He'll teach you how to use an axe."

Tom tossed Victor a wood-chopping axe.

The axe was heavier than he had expected, but Victor caught it steadily. He walked to a pile of logs and raised the axe in the manner Tom had demonstrated.

On the first attempt, the axe blade went astray and got stuck in the wood.

Viktor frowned, adjusted his breathing, and tried again.

Three hours later, his palms were blistered, but his movements were much smoother.

The axe traced a graceful arc, precisely splitting the wood grain.

Tom nodded in approval: "Good job, kid. You're getting it."

Victor understood old Jack's intention.

Like boxing, logging is all about how you generate power—not brute force, but the coordination of your whole body and a burst of speed.

He continued swinging the axe until his arms went numb, until the sun set, until the image of his lower body disappeared from his mind.

On the way back, old Jack handed Victor a bottle of water: "Starting tomorrow, come here every afternoon for at least half an hour."

Viktor nodded and tilted his head back to gulp down half a bottle of water.

Just then, his cell phone rang.

It was Michael, his voice urgent: "Victor, something's happened! That redhead from the Gallagher family barged in and beat me and Ethan up! Franky's men have taken him away!"

Victor frowned: "Ian Gallagher?"

"Yes, that's the lunatic! He has bipolar disorder just like his mother! His sister just came by, begging us to release him, but we ignored her."

Viktor looked out the window at the scenery rushing by and thought of Fiona Gallagher—the woman who was always exhausted but forced to keep going.

He didn't want to get involved in this, so he said, "Install an anti-theft device on both the front and back doors."

The next morning, Victor appeared at the logging camp as usual.

But today he was distracted, and his axe missed several times.

Last night he went to the hospital to see Michael and Ethan—their injuries weren't serious, but they were extremely insulting.

Franky didn't beat Ian up because he thought Ian smelled like shit and whistled when the wind blew. Yesterday, Mickey, who could whistle from his lower body, also came and Franky shot off half of his ear.

Mickey, representing the rednecks, almost went to war with Frankie, but Frankie let Mickey go and insisted on sending Ian to a mental hospital, saying that the kid was obviously mentally unstable.

"Pay attention!"

Tom's roar pulled him back to reality, "Don't hurt yourself!"

Viktor shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate—Fiona was right about one thing: you can only do your best if you eliminate others first.

Sweat soaked through his vest, rising in white vapor in the cold air.

Just as he raised his axe to chop down again, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing at the edge of the logging camp.

Fiona Gallagher.

She wore a thin jacket, her black hair was tied messily at the back of her head, and her face was as pale as paper.

She stood there hesitantly, seemingly afraid to approach.

Victor put down his axe and walked toward her.

As the distance closed, he could see the dark circles under her eyes and her slightly trembling lips.

"Fiona, you should rest."

“Victor,”

Fiona's voice was hoarse, "I know I have no right to beg you, but Ian..."

“He also has bipolar disorder and beat up Michael and Ethan. As their older brother, it’s not a problem for Frankie to stand up for them.”

Victor interrupted her, his voice cold and hard: "But this has nothing to do with me. I didn't pursue the matter of Ian damaging my furniture; that's already being fair to him."

A flicker of despair crossed Fiona's eyes: "I know, I'm sorry. But he's sick, he has bipolar disorder, he can't control himself. A mental hospital will ruin him..."

Looking at her trembling fingers and reddened eyes, Victor suddenly recalled the epiphany he had had by the window on that snowy night.

He had never experienced love—but what was it that was welling up in his heart at this moment?

"So why did you come to find me?"

Victor stated a fact: "You should know that I'm the least likely person to help you, because I've also fallen out with Franky!"

Fiona looked up, tears welling in her eyes but stubbornly refusing to fall: "Because you're the only one who might listen to me. Old Joe refused to help me, and even Lip said Ian deserved it..."

Her voice choked with emotion, “But I can’t give up on him, he’s my brother. If you’ll agree, Franky is willing to give you face.”

A tear finally slid down, quickly turning cold in the chilly wind.

Viktor felt a strange sense of pleasure upon seeing the tears.

But Victor's words were colder than the wind: "That's not about saving face, that's a noose that will drag me into the gang. I will not have any contact with Franky. You can call the police."

Fiona's eyes were cold: "Frankie has already called the police, and Ian will be sent to a mental health center."

"Then you don't need to spend any money."

Victor expressed his incomprehension: "Why don't you send Ian for treatment because he has bipolar disorder?"

"Because he is my younger brother, he can stay at home. He only needs to take some medication for bipolar disorder."

Viktor ignored this statement: "This is irresponsible to everyone in the community."

Fiona looked at the merciless Victor and left in silence.

······

But the bad news wasn't over yet.

Viktor looked up at the window of his rented apartment on the fifth floor. The glass was intact, which made his tense nerves relax a little.

But as he approached the building entrance, a commotion immediately alerted him.

"The right to choose freely belongs to everyone!"

A hoarse male voice shouted, "Here, we need unity even more!"

Viktor squinted and saw more than twenty people gathered at the entrance, mostly women and children.

Standing at the front was a tall, thin man in his fifties with messy gray hair and wearing a dirty suit jacket—Frank Gallagher, the neighborhood’s notorious alcoholic and con man.

"This building has enough space to accommodate everyone!"

Frank brandished a bottle, spitting as he spoke, "We can't let a few people monopolize the resources!"

Victor's knuckles turned white against the gun.

Now, these parasites want to invade his sanctuary while he goes out searching for supplies.

Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to make the people closest to him back away in fright.

The crowd suddenly fell silent and automatically parted to make way for them.

Frank turned around, a flicker of panic crossing his drunken eyes when he saw Viktor and the gun in his hand, but he quickly regained his exaggerated sense of justice.

"Ah! The Chicago boxing champion is finally back!"

Frank opened his arms wide, as if welcoming an old friend. "We're discussing how to distribute resources fairly. As a member of the community, you have a responsibility—"

Before he could finish speaking, Victor raised his gun and pointed it directly at Frank's forehead.

A gasp rippled through the crowd, and several children began to cry.

"I said, get out of here."