From Bullets To Billions

Chapter 501: Stephen’s Past (Part 1)

When Stephen had been asked to lose the match, it wasn’t as if the request came with no benefit to him. In fact, the amount offered had been shockingly high, $50,000 in cash, handed over quietly and without questions. For a fighter like Stephen, who made barely twelve thousand dollars every three months per bout, the amount was enough to make even the most determined athlete hesitate. It was more money than he had ever seen laid out in front of him at once. Enough to live on for a while. Enough to solve the immediate pressures of rent, food, and survival. But not enough to build a life. Not enough to secure a future. And certainly not enough to give up the one dream he had been chasing since he first laced up gloves.

The reality was harsh. As a fighter, Stephen knew his time was limited. Fighters aged fast. Their bodies aged even faster. And if he accepted the offer, he knew without question that losing this match meant more than just losing a fight. He’d be losing his momentum, his undefeated record, and the fragile path he’d been carving toward a world title. Losing intentionally wasn’t just a loss, it was surrender.

When the promoter had left, promising to "come back tomorrow for a final answer," Stephen found himself unable to sleep, unable to train, and unable to clear his head. The offer rolled around in his thoughts like a punch that refused to stop landing. Every scenario played through his mind: the shame, the relief, the consequences, the fear, the opportunity. It lingered so heavily that he struggled even to shadowbox, every movement weighed down by indecision.

It was then that the one person still in the gym, the one person Stephen still considered true family, walked toward him. His trainer. The man who had lifted him off the streets, shaped his fists into weapons, and taught him discipline and pride.

"I think you should take the offer."

The words hit Stephen harder than any punch ever had. His stomach sank, his shoulders stiffened, his hands tightened unconsciously at his sides. It wasn’t what he had wanted to hear.

"But if I lose the match, won’t it make it impossible for me to get a title shot?" Stephen asked, voice strained, eyes searching for some sign of hope, some sign that his mentor still believed in him.

The trainer let out a long, tired sigh.

"You’ve been going at this for four years already," he said. "But because you don’t have star power, no flashy image, no loud personality, the opportunities that should have come your way just haven’t appeared. Boxing isn’t just about skill. It’s about selling tickets. And right now, you can’t. Not enough to matter."

The words were blunt, cold, and honest in a way that pierced deeper than any criticism Stephen had heard before.

"The boxing world is smaller than you think," the trainer continued. "A talented fighter like you can make good money as a journeyman."

Stephen felt that word like poison. A journeyman. A stepping stone. A man hired to lose.

"You make rising stars look good," the trainer explained. "You still win against the honest ones building their records. There’s money in that. Good money. Once you take one offer, you’ll get more. Enough to retire. Enough to stop breaking your body every day."

Then came the final blow.

"You don’t have to train as hard anymore..."

Stephen’s jaw tightened. His voice rose.

"So you’re saying... you don’t think I can become a world champion? That’s not what you told me when I started! You said I had potential! You said I could climb all the way!"

"You did have potential," the trainer said quietly. "But things change. The landscape changes. I believed in you. I still do. But I’m telling you the best path forward for the life you can realistically have. I’m looking out for you."

Stephen didn’t want to hear any more. The betrayal, the disappointment, the frustration, it all swirled together until he could no longer stand in the same room. He stormed out, heart pounding, anger swallowing his breath.

And after pacing alone for what felt like hours, he finally sent his decision.

[No deal. I’m going to become world champion one day.]

The promoters never replied. They never came back. They never renegotiated. And Stephen took that silence as the first sign that things were about to turn ugly.

The days passed quickly, and the tension increased with each sunrise. Then, the day before the fight, while Stephen was merely doing light training to keep his body warm, they came.

Men in black uniforms.

Men carrying blades and bats.

Men who had no intention of holding a conversation.

They swarmed the gym like a coordinated unit, blocking the exits, pushing through the equipment, and forcing the other boxers and trainers into corners. Stephen immediately understood, the promoters weren’t interested in negotiations. They wanted compliance. They wanted a message delivered.

A few fighters tried to resist, but after one man’s hand was shattered with a single blow of a bat, no one else dared to interfere.

But Stephen fought back. Of course he did. He moved like the fighter he had trained his whole life to be, quick, sharp, reactive. He blocked attacks, countered strikes, and pushed back more men than anyone expected. He wasn’t special, but he was experienced, and experience counted for something.

But then the scream came.

"AHHHHH!"

Stephen turned to see his trainer on the ground, leg crushed at an unnatural angle. Bone clearly broken. The man who had raised him, who had trained him, who had once believed in him, laid out and helpless.

"Kid," one of the intruders said coldly, lifting his bat again and aiming for the trainer’s head. "We came here for one reason only. And now someone’s been hurt because of you. Stop fighting."

"STOP!!" Stephen roared. The desperation in his voice could have cracked the air. "I’ll do it! I’ll lose the fight! Just get out! All of you, leave! Tell your boss I’ll take the fall. But if you swing that bat again, I swear none of you will walk out of here!"

The threat was serious. Real. And the men could see it in Stephen’s eyes. They retreated. They had accomplished their mission.

Stephen’s trainer was rushed to the hospital, along with several others who had taken lighter injuries. The police filed a report, but nothing ever came of it. No arrests. No follow-ups. Just silence.

But two things did happen.

His trainer would never walk properly again.

And a thick envelope of cash appeared at Stephen’s door, payment for a defeat he had not yet delivered.

And so, the day of the fight arrived.