The basement became something else entirely.
What started as a place to hide from the noise above turned into a kingdom below. Rose, Kurt, and Greasy didn't mean to build an empire...but sometimes empires grow out of necessity, not ambition.
The fight ring wasn't advertised. It didn't need to be. Benton kids talked. Whispers spread. And soon the basement had a name: The Pit.
They didn't invite people. They watched. They waited. And if someone caught their eye..if someone had the twitch of a fighter, the kind of quiet anger that fit in a ring better than a hallway, they got a test. One round, gloves or not, win or lose. If they kept swinging after the third hit, they were in. If they didn't? They didn't come back.
Rose enforced the rules. No weapons. No bullying. No jumping someone after a loss. Greasy called her the Queen of the Pit, and nobody laughed…not to her face. Kurt kept the records, but also the rhythm. He timed fights, tracked injuries, pinned schedules behind the boiler.
Greasy kept the show alive. He gave fighters nicknames. Decorated the walls with chalk tags and posters. He even built a bracket system and promised a championship night. Everyone thought he was joking. Then he followed through.
In the quiet moments between fights, the three of them would sit in the dark, backs against the brick, watching the circle they built. Sometimes they'd talk….usually about nothing. Sometimes they said nothing at all.
One night, Rose asked, "How long do you think this lasts?"
Kurt said, "Until someone burns it down."
Greasy said, "Until someone better comes along."
Rose shook her head. "No one better's coming. This is it. This is us."
That silence afterward was the sound of all three of them knowing she was right.
The Pit became a rite of passage. A kid might lose, but if they stood up, they left with more than bruises, they left with a name. And for Benton's orphans, a name meant everything.
Some kids started leaving tribute at the edge of the ring. Old wristbands, torn shoelaces, cigarette wrappers folded into tiny cranes. It was weird. Sacred. The three never asked them to do it. They just let it happen.
Word started spreading outside the walls. A kid from a group home two blocks away snuck in one night, asked to fight. Rose said no. Greasy offered him a sandwich instead. The kid left. Came back a week later with two more. Rose didn't say no that time.
They weren't just fighting anymore. They were creating something. With rules. With history.
They started naming nights, Glory Saturday, Iron Tuesday, Breakbones Thursday. What began as a joke stuck. So did the kids.
Upstairs, they were case files. Downstairs, they were contenders.
It was on a Breakbones Thursday when a fight ran too long. A kid named Marco took a hit that didn't sit right. Concussion. Mild, but real. They carried him out, laid him on an old mattress. He slept through the night.
After that, they put in new rules. Medical breaks. No shots to the spine. Ten-count resets.
It was Kurt's idea, but Rose enforced it like gospel. No mercy for cheaters. No forgiveness for rule-breakers.
The basement began to breathe with them. Blood, bleach, and concrete—every fight left its ghost, every bruise a whisper. That made it sacred.
Chalk lines on the wall tracked streaks. Initials carved into the dryer. A tally in Rose's notebook, just numbers, but she knew who they belonged to.
A language formed. The way someone wrapped their wrists told you how long they'd been there. The way they stepped into the ring told you if they were scared. The way they looked at Rose told you if they'd survive.
They changed. Hardened. Healed. No therapist upstairs could match it.
Greasy traded chores for intel…who was getting picked on, who could take a punch. Rose called it meddling. Kurt called it logistics. It worked.
They started assigning fights. Greasy added commentary. Kurt kept a second book: The Roster.
One night, a kid named Leo asked to fight for food. He hadn't eaten. Didn't want a handout. Rose matched him with a lanky boy named Hal. Leo lost. Hal gave him half his payout. That became a rule too, loser gets half. No shame in swinging.
The Pit changed kids. Upstairs, they walked taller. Staff thought it was maturity. It wasn't. It was fire.
Rose caught a girl named Riley watching from the stairwell, fists clenched. She didn't speak. Just nodded. A week later, she was a bruiser. Greasy called her The Shadow. She didn't hate it.
Some nights the lights failed. They fought by lanterns. Some nights pipes burst. They fought ankle-deep. Some nights it stank like mold and diesel. They fought anyway.
One night, Kurt found Rose and Greasy still there. She was taping her knuckles. He was showing her a southpaw hook.
"If we ever leave here," Kurt said, "this comes with us."
Rose nodded. "We're not leaving. Not till we're ready."
They touched the bolt-scratched B on the wall.
It wasn't a ritual yet. But it would be.
They didn't know it then, but the Pit wasn't just theirs. It was becoming legend.
And upstairs, scrawled in pencil on the dorm wall: "BB."
No one claimed it. But everyone knew.
The Brawlers had arrived.