By the third month, the Pit wasn't a secret. It was a system. A current running beneath the orphanage like hot wire. Everyone knew about it, even if they pretended not to. Some feared it. Some worshipped it. Some just needed it.
The fights weren't for show anymore. They were lessons. In pain, in breath control, in how to stay on your feet when the world wanted you down. Hands became memory. Bruises became maps.
Rose taught footwork without saying a word. She just made you do it until your calves burned. Greasy drilled jabs with shadowboxing drills that left kids wheezing. Kurt didn't fight—but he could tell you where your guard broke just by how you stepped between rounds.
And if you listened, you learned.
Their first real test came when someone from the outside wanted to take the ring.
His name was Devon. Seventeen. Tattooed early. Confidence like gasoline over fire. He strutted into the basement like it owed him something. A few younger kids stepped aside. His first mistake.
He challenged Rose on sight. Called her "Princess." Asked what rules he had to break to run the place.
Rose didn't blink. She stepped into the ring.
Devon laughed.
Kurt flipped to a clean page in his ledger.
Greasy shouted, "Devon the Deadbeat versus Rose, Queen of the Pit! One round. One answer. Let's see what silence sounds like!"
The fight lasted twenty seconds.
Devon didn't see the elbow coming. He dropped like a light bulb in a hailstorm. When he woke up, half his ego was on the floor with his blood.
Rose leaned down and whispered something no one else heard. He never came back. Rumor said he got transferred out the next week.
That was the day the Pit became legend.
Kids showed up with bandaged hands. Wore long sleeves even in summer. Spoke softer when they talked about the basement.
Then came the gear. Greasy scored gloves, cracked leather from a gym donation. They stank, but they worked. Rose cleaned them every Sunday. Kurt stitched numbers into the lining for rotation. Small system. Still theirs.
After a string of close matches, Kurt proposed fight tiers: Novice. Striker. Rogue. Rogue was for the unpredictable, the kids who didn't follow rhythm or rules. Everyone wanted to be rogue. Few earned it.
They chalked rankings on the wall and updated them weekly. You didn't just win in the Pit, you moved up.
Training got sharper. Rose ran drills like a ghost sergeant…quiet, strict. She never praised. But if you got it right, she watched longer. That meant more.
Greasy taught dirty tricks: shoulder bumps, low slips, psych-outs. He called it "feral footwork." He made it cool.
Kurt filmed fights with a stolen camcorder, then played the tapes back slow. Pulled kids aside. Pointed out exactly when they dropped their guard or hesitated on a combo.
The basement became more than a fight ring. It became confession.
Kids screamed down there. Some cried. One girl broke her knuckle punching the wall after a loss. Kurt patched her up. She didn't say thanks. Just showed up the next week and won.
Every corner had a name. The ring was the Heart. The tools corner? The Bench. The back hall with the ledgers was the Archive. Greasy even named the cracked washing machine: The Throne. No one sat on it unless they earned it.
One night the power blew mid-match. Rose lit matches and stuck them in old bottles for light. They called it Fire Fight. No one lost. Everyone bled.
She pointed at the ring. "One round. You stand, you stay."
The fights got better. And worse. One kid cracked a tooth. Another broke a wrist. They started enforcing safety nights: no headshots, no clinch holds, full gloves.
But no one left. Not after blood. Not after bruises. Upstairs was chaos. Paperwork, curfews, fake smiles.
Downstairs?
Downstairs was earned.
After a brutal match that left two boys hugging each other bloody, Kurt scratched a phrase into the wall with a nail:
"Hands tell the truth."
He never explained it. He didn't need to.
Down there, everyone understood.
Despite their harsh beginnings, a unique kinship was forming, stronger than any bloodline.