The air in the Pit felt thick, like it had soaked up every drop of blood and sweat ever spilled here and refused to let them go.


    The underground arena was built into an old factory floor, surrounded by rusted catwalks and makeshift stands where dozens of gangsters crowded together, shouting over each other. The whole place stank of cheap booze, dirty money, and bad decisions.


    Wildcard stood near the entrance, arms crossed, watching as two men pounded each other into the dirt. No rules. No refs. Just a circle of bloodthirsty spectators waiting for someone to drop.


    One guy already had—face-first into the mud, unconscious. The other was still standing, knuckles split and breathing heavy.


    A hand clapped his shoulder. Isla.


    "Beautiful, isn’t it?" she said, grinning.


    "More like unsanitary," Wildcard muttered, watching as a runner dragged the unconscious guy out of the ring.


    She ignored him. "Come on. We need drinks."


    <hr>


    The bar was little more than a rusted metal counter with mismatched bottles lined up behind it. Isla leaned against it, grinning as she counted her winnings.


    "Easy money," she said, tossing a few bills toward Wildcard.


    He caught them without looking. "You bet against the guy that’s unconscious, didn’t you?"


    "Damn right I did."


    Wildcard smirked, shaking his head.


    Isla pushed a drink toward him. "So, what do you think? Good place to let off some steam, huh?"


    Wildcard scanned the room. The Pit wasn’t just about fighting. It was about reputation and influence. A way for people to prove themselves—or get destroyed trying.


    He exhaled through his nose. "I think it’s a place to get your teeth kicked in."


    Isla grinned. "Same thing."


    A loud voice cut through the noise.


    "Who''s next?"


    Wildcard turned and saw a man step into the ring. He was big. Too big. The kind of guy that probably got dropped into the Sinkhole for tearing someone in half.


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    His head was shaved clean, covered in faint scars. He spread his arms wide, grinning at the crowd. "Come on! Someone give me a challenge!"


    A new problem interrupted his thoughts.


    "Wildcard!" Isla’s voice snapped him back.


    He blinked, turned—just in time to see her shoving someone toward him.


    Someone he recognized instantly.


    Grunt.


    The bigger man grinned and cracked his knuckles. "Boss says it’s time for you to prove yourself," he said. "And lucky you—I volunteered to help."


    Wildcard glanced at Isla, brows raised. "You set me up?"


    She smirked. "Consider it encouragement."


    "Yeah, well, I consider it a pain in my ass."


    Grunt chuckled. "Just shut up and fight."


    A roar went through the crowd as the two of them stepped into the ring.


    <hr>


    Wildcard moved first.


    Waiting on a guy like Grunt to throw the first punch was a bad idea.


    He ducked low, twisted to the side, and drove a quick elbow toward Grunt’s ribs. The impact felt like hitting a concrete wall.


    Grunt barely flinched. His arm shot forward.


    Wildcard barely had time to react before a meaty fist crashed into his ribs.


    Pain exploded through his side. He stumbled, tried to keep his footing. Grunt didn’t let him.


    A second punch cracked against his jaw. His vision flickered white.


    Wildcard hit the dirt.


    Laughter and cheers exploded from the crowd.


    Grunt shook his head. "Really? That’s all?"


    Wildcard coughed and wiped blood from his lip. His mind raced.


    He exhaled sharply, spit pooling in his mouth. He wasn’t proud of what he was about to do.


    "Hold on," he groaned, waving a hand weakly as he pushed himself up. "I just need a second."


    Grunt rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on—"


    Wildcard turned his head and spit into his own palm.


    Grunt barely had time to register it before Wildcard smeared it across his forearm.


    "What the f—"


    Grunt’s entire arm locked up instantly.


    The muscle twitched violently, fingers seizing, refusing to obey. The shock in his expression was worth the pain in Wildcard’s ribs.


    Wildcard grinned. "Guess I’m a hands-on kind of guy."


    Grunt growled and tried to swing with his other arm, but his balance was off now.


    Wildcard ducked under the punch, spat onto his knuckles, and drove a fist straight into Grunt’s neck.


    The contact was brief, but it was enough.


    Grunt staggered back, choking, his throat muscles locking up.


    Wildcard saw his moment.


    He rushed forward, slammed a shoulder into Grunt’s chest, and drove him down into the dirt.


    The crowd roared again, but this time, it wasn’t laughter.


    It was cheering.


    Grunt twitched beneath him, gasping, unable to move his arms or neck.


    Wildcard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed Grunt by the collar, pulling him up just enough to whisper, "Looks like I win."


    Grunt glared at him, teeth clenched. He couldn’t even respond.


    Wildcard let go and stepped back, breathing hard.


    The announcer hesitated, then lifted Wildcard’s arm.


    "Winner!"


    The Pit erupted into chaos.


    <hr>


    As they left the ring, Isla nudged him with her elbow. "That was disgusting."


    Wildcard smirked, still rolling his sore jaw. "Yeah, well, disgusting works."


    She laughed. "Looks like you made an impression."


    He followed her gaze and saw the way the crowd was looking at him.


    Some were grinning. Some were calculating. Some were taking mental notes.


    Because Wildcard hadn’t won with brute strength.


    He had won with something no one saw coming.


    And in the Sinkhole, that was dangerous.