I've been watching Vanguards collect a few crowds from the ship that has just landed port. They must've caught illegal traders or immigrants. I can't see clearly from my window view.

    “You’re not even flinching at the needle anymore, Indi.” Leigh notes.

    “You get wounded a hundred times, a needle and thread will be the least of your worries.”

    I've learnt to seek help with my wounds now; I used to stitch them myself. But frequently receiving deep wounds on areas I can't reach had led me on the helping hands of Leonora Greene. 

    Not every physician in the country welcomes tainted ones like me.

    I hear the mass outside, the ocean waves hitting the floorboards. I look out the window and witness another ship docking in the harbor area. Leigh must have caught a glance too because she says,  "Have you heard of those prison ships, Indi?" 

    It's been almost half an hour since she began stitching the long slice on my back. "The hulks. Do any of those dock here?"

    "In the middle of the richest sector? No way."

    I hear footsteps approaching us. 

    Lilian, who’s been assisting Leigh regularly, slides the curtain open and sets inside the room. He places down a tray full of vials, must be herbal medicines.  

    "This is no place for hulks," he snickers, adjusting his glasses. "The rich are blind to filth. They like everything polished."

    His eyes land on the bloodied gauzes, then on my back. My wounds seem to have startled him. "Those wounds—"

    "Hexes." I cut. "We had a big number."

Leigh scans her handiwork proudly, claiming it finished. I give them my regards and proceed to head out. I still have a long night ahead of me.

    "Say hi to Inna for me!" Leigh calls out cheerfully.

    "You’re blushing."

    I could almost swear Lilian snorted.

    "Oh, piss off!"

    Their voices fade behind me.

The dark alleys of the Fortress welcomes me. I breathe in the moist putrid air, I can never figure out the wholeness of the scent. Asphalt, smoke from factories and cigars--perhaps horse shit too. Or Blood. Who knows. 

    The acres of the fortress are most welcoming, anyway.

    “Your slip.” A towering silhouette stoops in front of me, stopping me from my tracks.

    The smell of burning nicotine enters my nose, I almost can’t hide my disgust. It’s a good thing I decided to wear my flat cap today. I don’t look up at the man and instead hand him my slip. It is a small red card, surprisingly durable, and in it are proof of my allegiance to the fortress.

    Now that I realize, I was taller than the previous guard, old man Fendor. He had a hunched back and unwashed gray beard. He must have left his position, or in the usual cases, was finally disposed of. No weakling can survive for long in the acres. 

    This is taking too long. He’s either devouring the contents of my slip or spaced out in the midst of it.

    I look up, and the stoic man grunts. “What’s a pristine punk like you doing here?” 

    He looks me up and down as he throws the final bit of his cigar on the ground. A nasty curl sets on his mouth. There’s no place for commoners in the fortress’ acre, let alone a young man dressed in a coat and tie. 

    Oh, he really won’t let me pass through. This isn't the first time it's occured. But unless I want to pass as a suspicious civilian in the city and stir trouble, wearing clothes like this is a necessity.

    But I have my ways of dealing with thugs like him. I fight my smile. “You’re a new bait.”

    His eyebrows furrow further. “Say what?”

    “Have they killed old Fendor? Found him useless?” He stands still, waiting for more information.

    By the gods, he must really be new here indeed. 

    I tilt my head, meeting him straight in the eyes. I must either look menacing, or, so help me, frightfully unconvincing. I swallow. “The previous watchman before you. He lasted two months, at the very least.”

    He must seem to get the idea now—if he does not do his part in the acre, he will be disposed of. He finally scans my slip, properly, this time. I point at the small card, “Care to give that back to me?”

    “You live here.” He expresses in disbelief.

    “I do.” There is no lie in my words. I do live here. I pull the slip from his fingers and set it back into the pocket of my coat. I really have no time for charades, I want to lay down. “Now move.”

I had hoped I will no longer need to show my slip as a proof of my residence in here. That I, just like the tainted that walked the acre, belonged rightfully in this place. 

       But I never truly felt my place. Not anywhere.