1
KATANA
The moment I step inside the gym, I can already tell someone’s bled on the mat again.
The scent’s faint, but I know it like old perfume. The familiar scent of sweat, copper, and adrenaline curls in my nose laced with the memory of every fight I didn’t walk away from. A fight happened last night that wasn’t scheduled, and if it wasn’t sanctioned, someone’s about to eat shit.
That alone sets off a slow burn in my gut. I run this side of the operation. I bleed for it. And I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. Steel Roses has rules. If you want to bleed, you do it by the book. If someone thinks this gym is just another pit to throw fists, they don’t belong here.
I drop my duffel near the front counter and stalk toward the ring. The fluorescents overhead flicker like the building’s got nerves. I climb the apron, run my fingers across the sticky ropes and glance at the camera mounted above the cage, making a mental note to pull the footage.
Steel Roses is already humming with the low pulse of music through the walls, the metallic clink of chains from the weight room, and the silence of discipline. The air pulses with sweatand adrenaline. The kind that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs. Everything smells like old leather, chalk dust, and blood that’s been scrubbed a hundred times but still stains the floor. Even with the bay doors cracked for airflow and the early morning chill rolling off the Atlantic, the place is warm.
Three girls are on the floor, two sparring, one doing crunches with that blank-eyed look that usually means she saw something ugly recently.
“Kat!”
Riot’s voice echoes from the weight rack. She’s sitting cross-legged on a bench, wrapping her hands. Her braid is half-done, and she’s got a fresh bruise on her cheek. Purple with a sick yellow tinge spreading around the edges. Probably from sparring, hopefully. With Riot, you don’t ask unless she offers.
“You’re up early,” I jump down from the ring beside her.
She grins. “Didn’t feel like sleepin’. Figured the weights might hurt less than my thoughts.”
“You planning to punch with that wrist?” I ask, eyeing the tight wrap job on her wrist.
“Only if someone gives me a reason.”
I nod once, understanding what she means completely. Cracking the tension from my neck, I continue to move through the gym like I’m stalking a perimeter. My boots tap a steady rhythm across the polished concrete, the sound echoing up into the exposed beams above. Light spills in through high-set windows, cutting across the gym floor in sharp, golden angles. The walls are dark red brick patchworked with old paint and newer graffiti, most of it done by the girls.
Steel Roses isn’t just a gym. It’s our frontline. Every woman who walks in here gets stronger, whether she realizes it yet or not. This isn’t a place for posturing or cheap fights. This is where broken things get remade harder than before. We don’t just protect women. We build them into something dangerous.
I check the corners, the doors, the heavy bags. Every bolt. Every chain. My mind clicks through the same checklist every morning. Tail Gunner instincts don’t go quiet just because I’m off my bike.
I make a quick pass through the rest of the ground floor. The gym section is fully stocked: treadmills against the wall, racks of kettlebells and free weights, two sparring mats, and the mirrored area where we teach women how to survive.
Next door is our garage. Three bikes up on lifts, one stripped down to its frame. I catch the lingering smell of brewing hops from the equipment in the back room leftover from when the building was still a brewery. Quinn, the Royal Harlots Atlantic City President, never tore out the tanks. She runs Harlots Ale through them, bottled and sold to allies and locals who don’t ask too many questions.
I finish the sweep and head back to the counter, rifling through paperwork and schedules. Quinn’s left-handed scrawl sprawls across the margins with class changes, gear orders, a note about fixing the second-hand dryer again. Riot brings me coffee, some questionable blend she swears by, and we go over names of girls who’ve missed class or gone quiet.
My gut knots. The girls that come through these doors are street kids, runaways, survivors of shit no one should have to live through. Some crawl out of bad relationships, bruised inside and out. Here, we offer them safety. Strength. A place to rebuild. We teach them how to hold their ground, and how to land a punch.
But lately, that haven feels like it’s cracking.
One of the names stands out. Amber. A self-defense student who was barely eighteen when she came in off the streets with a fight in her eyes and nowhere safe to put it. But lately she’s been slipping. Skipping drills. Showing up late. I mark it down to follow up. But first, I want to know who bled on my damn mat.
I swipe the tablet from under the counter and log into the security feed. The cage has no blind spots unless someone yanks the cable, and no one with a patch is that stupid. I rewind the feed to 01:12 a.m, just after closing last night. Two figures step in through the side door, gloves already on before they step into the ring. I recognize them instantly. Meadow and Silk.
They don’t touch gloves. Just circle and start trading shots. No theatrics, no ego. Just clean strikes and tension bleeding out through sweat. Meadow’s fast as hell but Silk holds her own. It’s not a grudge match. Just something they needed to work out the only way we know how.
Meadow takes a clean jab to the mouth near the end. That explains the smear on the ropes. Silk offers her a hand when she goes down and Meadow takes it.
I let the footage run for another few minutes, watching them clean up the mess. Silk keys in the code, and locks up behind her before they both slip back out through the side door.
I exhale. Not thrilled, but not pissed either. This is their gym as much as it’s mine. It belongs to all of us. I shut down the feed and slide the tablet back under the counter.
By mid-morning, the gym is filled. I catch Tori, who came to us after years of taking swings from her Ol’ man, shadowboxing near the mirror. She’s got a strong jab, decent footwork, but she second-guesses herself too much. Still, I’ve seen her get back up after being knocked on her ass more times than most.
“Tori,” I call out. “Wrap up. You’re sparring with me.”
