The bloodshed comes

The bloodshed was coming, and everyone in the room could feel it crackling in the air like a summer thunderstorm ready to burst.

Those who observed the unfolding chaos couldn't take their eyes off it. The crowd began to rally, excitement swirling in the atmosphere—a mob ready to erupt.

"Tear his mouth apart!"

"Break his damn teeth!"

As Tyson was restrained, the fire in his eyes ignited. "You've crossed a line," he hissed, slowly letting the words simmer with menace. "You've succeeded in angering me, and you'll pay for your reckless insolence."

Mercedes, blind to the gravity of Tyson's threat, couldn't help but smirk. He was puffed up with an inexplicable sense of superiority that seemed to hang over him like a fog. He stretched out his middle finger, hurling slurs that felt more inappropriate than significant in the midst of the tension.

Amidst this volatile atmosphere, the underwear manufacturer hiding in the crowd reveled in it, his grin as wide as the Nile. Given enough intensity, he mused, the tickets could sell out in a heartbeat.

He was unconcerned about the scrutiny; this had been his press conference, where he was the king. No representatives from the sport's committee or the WBC were here—he held all the cards today.

Four security guards stepped in, parting the sea of bodies, preventing the storm from turning into a melee. Tyson could have broken their hold with one swing, but he held back, knowing that such an act would lead to a bloodbath he could easily avoid.

With Mercedes being pulled away by his entourage, Tyson was released from the guards' grip. He glared in Mercedes's direction, the anger inside him simmering dangerously. His self-control was legendary, but the molten heat of rage was an altogether different beast to tame.

He eyed the crowd and said, "Did you see that punk? I'll make him feel death itself, and he will remember that Mike Tyson is not a man to be trifled with. You should come to the gym to witness the reckoning."

With that declaration, he turned on his heel and strode away, slipping into his Cadillac.

The weigh-in and drug testing were a formality, smothered in silence. Both fighters were kept apart intentionally—an effort to avert an escalation they knew was possible.

The ride back felt heavy, laden with the tension that clung to them like sweat-soaked shirts. Tyson sat in a pall of stillness, the hot embers of anger still smoldering beneath the surface.

After a long moment of silence, Kus, ever the strategist, broke the ice. "Mike, keep your cool. Losing your reason would throw away everything you've worked for. Channel that anger like a predator in the grasslands, lying in wait before it sinks its teeth into the prey."

In the face of world-class competitors, letting fury lead the way could push a fighter toward reckless decisions. Kus was attempting to avert disaster.

Tyson turned his gaze to the window, watching the world blur by: "Kus, come on. You don't know me at all. I'm a full-blown Oscar-worthy actor—where's my trophy?"

And as he cracked a smile, Jimmy and Bill shared a tentative glance, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over their faces. They had feared Tyson might lose his way in the heat of the moment, but now they saw it was all a show.

Is Tyson mad? Sure, but not to the degree he projected. He reveled in the performance—a masterclass in captivating an audience, in drawing the eyes of fans, wanting them to remember the thunderous storm that was Mike Tyson.

Bill chuckled, shaking his head. "You're incredible, Mike! You've turned boxing into a plot twist like an episode of WWE." He referred to the wrestling phenomenon that had become the brainchild of Vince McMahon, dazzling and larger than life.

"That's where you're wrong," Jimmy rebuffed with a serious air. "Boxing is a genuine contest—a showcasing of raw strength and skill. Sure, there's the theatrics, but in the ring, it's just you and your grit that matter."

"Damn right," Tyson agreed, his voice firm. "When that bell rings, all that's left is reality."

By the time they rolled into the training hall, Tyson was ready to dig deep into his regimen. Kuss and the team began outlining their strategy for tomorrow's game—the names and roles being established without delay.

They decided quickly: Teddy would be in for training duties, while Kus would coach. Bill would shuttle stools and towels like it was an Olympic sport, and Jimmy would keep an eye on the action, the real stakes unfolding right before his eyes.

As the evening approached, Tyson didn't rush; he allowed the hours to slip by naturally. The fight was set for seven, but he followed his routine—the ritual grounding him before the storm.

Eight chosen for sparring; they had become a part of Tyson's makeshift training team. Each one brought something to the ring, pushing Tyson ever closer to his edge. Given the dangers of sparring with him, their weekly pay soared to $1,000—a sweet reward for putting themselves in Tyson's path.

The afternoon session was lighter, focusing instead on physical conditioning and honing explosive power. When he did finally rest, the dark of the room had crept in.

Tyson awoke to find it was five in the evening. Kus and Jimmy waited in the shadows of the living room, eager expressions blossoming on their faces.

"Mike," Jimmy said, his tone shifting to that of serious counsel, "this fight marks your entry into professional boxing. It's crucial you show them your power; it will set the tone for everything that follows."

Kus nodded emphatically, gesturing toward Tyson. "Use those fists, Mike. You're reclaiming what's yours—Tyson's era is rising again."

As six rolled around, the three of them piled into the Cadillac, not quite sure what awaited them outside.

The arena was the lesser-known Osses Stadium—more a barn than a ring, barely holding seven hundred spectators within its aging walls. It barely qualified as an arena in the eyes of major media; there were no blaring screens or flashing lights.

But, as Tyson stepped inside, he was surprised to find the seats filled with eager faces. This was certainly no usual turnout.

And then he spotted him—the man he had hoped to avoid. A shrewd-looking bald head bobbing through the crowd—Edwin, the wrinkle in all his plans.