It’s in the silence. It’s in the absence of the fighters who used to walk through these doors. And it’s in the sound of my own heart, punching behind my ribs like it wants out.
The silence stretches like an old scar. And Marc’s ghost lingers at the edge of the ring like he always does, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
My brother, Marc was the first of us to step into the underground fight world, just a kid trying to keep us fed when nobody else gave a damn. I followed in his footsteps, learned how to move, how to hit, how to survive. We did what we had to until he was left bleeding in an alley and I found him too late.
I remember the way his blood steamed on the pavement. The way his voice cracked when he told me not to let it all be for nothing. He told me to build something better. Now I run thisring. Brutal, yeah, but it’s ours. And I protect it like it’s the last piece of him I’ve got left.
But it’s not enough anymore. Because the wolves are at the door. Girls are disappearing. And Katana? She’s out there thinking I’m the one dragging them into the dark.
Katana looks at me and sees a villain. She’s not wrong but villains bleed too. I’m not the only monster in this city. I’m the one trying to keep something worse at bay. I’ve buried worse men than Serrano. That’s not a threat. It’s just history.
3
KATANA
The wind’s too loud to think, but not loud enough to drown out the past clawing up my spine every time I try to outrun it. The throttle screams beneath my palm, the engine vibrating through my thighs, the cold salt air cutting across my skin like a fucking razor and still the memory finds me.
I’m twenty-two again, a young veteran fresh out of the army, special ops burned into my bones. My muscles still remember every drill, every strike, every order barked through the radio. Hand-to-hand was my edge; fists and fury when guns weren’t an option. And I’m damn good at it.
Now I’m home, but the ground doesn’t feel steady. My skin’s still tan from the desert sun, my body mapped with scars from places no one even knows I’ve been. I move through streets that feel too quiet, too empty, like the world forgot what chaos looks like.
People don’t see the cracks. They don’t see the way I walk into rooms too fast, eyes sweeping for exits. They don’t see the nights I sleep with my fist wrapped around the knife under my pillow, or how I flinch at fireworks but never at punches.
Civilian life is the cage. And I can’t breathe in it.
So I find a concrete basement with blood caked in the cracks and a steel chain fence for a wall. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and desperation. The roar of the crowd is louder than a war zone, but it drowns out my thoughts, and I welcome it.
There are no rules, no weight classes, no time limits. Just bodies thrown into the pit like meat for the dogs.
And I’m one of them. A broken soldier trading purpose for pain. I bounce on my toes, circling a woman twice my size, arms like tree trunks and a permanent snarl. The crowd chants for blood.
No gloves. No mouthguard. Just fists.
The first punch splits my lip. The second breaks my nose. By the third, I’m laughing, manic and wild, because it fucking hurts, and God, I need that pain. It means I’m not floating in the abyss anymore.
I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know if it’s morning or night. Hell, I don’t even know my opponent's name. But I’ll always remember the sound my shoulder makes when it pops out of place. I’ll remember the taste of copper filling my mouth, the way my vision tunnels until the world is just her fists and my failure.
She doesn’t stop, but neither do I. I swing until my knuckles split open against her face, until my arm goes numb and my body folds under its own weight. The crowd becomes a blur of noise, boots stomping, voices howling for more. I keep fighting long after sense leaves me, until everything fades to black and someone drags me out by the back of my shirt, barely moving, barely breathing.
Underground fights aren’t civilized, and they sure as hell aren’t legal. We don’t get patched up or carried to safety. We get tossed in the alley behind the ring. That’s where I come to, coughing blood, my rib cracked, my soul screaming. Rain hitsmy face, cold and filthy, washing away the blood but not the emptiness.
I lie there for a long time, staring up at the sky like it might give me a reason to get up again. It doesn’t. But I do. Because that’s what I was trained to do. Get up, fight, survive.
The world tilts. The roar of the crowd fades. All that’s left is the sound of my pulse and the burn in my lungs.
Then it’s gone.
The basement, the blood, the woman’s fists. It vanishes under the scream of my bike engine. The road stretches ahead, city lights blurring like tracer fire. I blink hard, dragging myself back into the now.
The throttle vibrates under my palm, the air cutting across my face. My heart’s still hammering like I never left that pit. I pull harder, chasing the wind, chasing distance, chasing silence. The road blurs under my bike tires but that moment cuts sharp through my mind. I pull harder on the throttle.
The truth is, I didn’t climb out of that place because I wanted to be better. I climbed out because I saw a girl watching me from the side of the cage.
I saw myself in her. And I realized if I didn’t do something different, if I didn’t give her something else to strive for, she’d follow me right into the grave I was digging for myself.
That was the night I drew up the first plans for Steel Roses. In blood, in pain and something close to hope. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I wanted to make sure no one else had to bleed to feel. Joining the Royal Harlots gave me that.
The wind rips through me now like penance. And still, I can’t stop thinking about Amber. About how many girls are still out there looking for the same pain to feel alive cause pain is all they know. And how assholes like Dante Cross offer them that pain disguised as power for a wad of cash.
