BLOOD ON THE CANVAS: THE PRICE OF TRUE DISCIPLINE

While Frank battered the heavy bag in the drafty academy, five miles away in a high-rise overlooking the marina, Viktor stood by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, holding a crystal glass of sparkling mineral water.

Across the mahogany conference table sat Marcus, dressed in an expensive designer tracksuit, scrolling restlessly through comments on his social media feed. His phone screen illuminated an ego hungry for validation.

""Put the phone face down,"" Viktor said calmly, without turning around.

Marcus flinched, then slid the phone into his pocket. ""Just checking the buzz for the showcase, Viktor. People are already talking about the underground card.""

Viktor turned slowly, his face expressionless. ""The underground card is not for public entertainment, Marcus. It is a financial instrument. You exist in that pit to validate our investment and ensure our associates collect their debts. You are not a celebrity yet.""

""I took care of the coach, didn't I?"" Marcus scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair. ""I made sure he knew he was done. The gym’s yours on Friday.""

Viktor walked to the table and pressed a button on the intercom. ""Bring in the update.""

The double doors opened, and an associate laid a plain manila folder before Viktor. Viktor flipped it open, skimming the typed lines with a thin, condescending smile.

""Frank Miller signed Hector’s waiver two hours ago,"" Viktor murmured.

Marcus straightened up, his eyes widening. ""What? Frank signed? Against who?""

""Against you,"" Viktor replied, looking directly at the young fighter.

Marcus let out a loud, nervous bark of laughter, though his eyes darted left and right. ""He's fifty years old! He hasn't fought competitively since I was in middle school. That's suicide. Hector is setting him up to get crippled.""

""Hector is setting up a slaughter that will generate three times our anticipated handle in side-bets,"" Viktor corrected coldly. ""The old lion fighting for his temple against the young prodigy. It is classic melodrama. The spectators will bet emotionally on Miller; the smart money will ride on you.""

""I'll destroy him in one round,"" Marcus said, though his voice lacked the effortless swagger from the previous afternoon. ""I know all his setups.""

""You had better,"" Viktor warned, leaning over the table until his face was inches from Marcus’s. ""Because if an aging, broken-down gym owner who has had seventy-two hours of notice survives five minutes with you, your promotional value drops to zero. Apex does not sponsor losers. And if you lose us money in Hector’s pit... the cage in Vegas will be the least of your concerns.""