The Numbers on Her Wrist

23

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By the time I see Samuel again, it is dark outside and my panic has almost bubbled over. I had jogged past the street of my apartment in order to chance a look, but it had been completely sealed off to the public- under the ruse of construction.

As I walk into the crowded street fight, in a darkened warehouse near the shoreline tonight, I turn my head and eyes upon every face, searching for my friend. There are red-haired men and brown-haired men and blond-haired men and black-haired men. Some have blue, green, hazel, grey eyes- all with light or dark or tan or almond skin.

Samuel is nowhere to be seen.

I push roughly past a crowd that is congregated around a woman who dances seductively, her dress clinging to her form. I scoff in disgust at the lustful glances, drinks held high as men whoop and catcall. But I am not at all surprised by the rude behaviour; street fights have rules, but money is made in many ways here; there is no law in this world that prohibits people wandering in for "entertainment" that is not a fight.

I notice that the lady is a little older than me, her eyelashes lengthened and nails a crimson red, and her pink dress glimmers in the lights. I avert my eyes, my heart aching at the thought of her work, thinking of my friends- of Lila- who were subjected to that life.

"It's a street fight, not a strip club!"

Everyone turns slightly at the tall man that steps inside the warehouse, his hair a dark blond and eyes darkened in the ill-lit space. I breathe in relief, glad someone is willing to stand up to the majority of the fighters here. A few people mutter obscenities, but the crowded circle slowly dissipates, the heavily make-up-ed woman frowning and flicking hair over her shoulders. She bites her thumb at the new arrival, before turning on her red high heel and storming away- a man following close. I smirk at the old-fashioned gesture, only knowing it because of Zoe's long obsession with Shakespeare's works.

I guide myself past the men now placed more frequently at the edges of the match between two equally matched fighters. I only glance at the struggling men, not in the least interested in the petty brawl- these two are lengthening the match purposefully, I deduct that they must be working and earning together tonight.

"Watch it, girl!" Someone growls to me as I slip by them none too gently. Their expression changes immediately as he sees my bright blue eyes and soft features, recognizing me as a girl. He believes that he will be able to intimidate me. "Get out of the way, dame!" Usually, the name would be a pleasantry, but his scornful voice strikes a nerve; my lips twitch. "You shouldn't get in the way of a street fighter!" He lifts an arm to shove me out of the way, but I hold my ground and move more directly in front of him, holding onto my satchel. I glance down at my dark pants and the bruises on my knuckles and the whole "street-fighter vibe" to my attire.

"Really?" I scoff at the man. "Get out of my way." I say calmly, beginning to slip to the other side of the congregation, but his rough hand catches mine. "Don't you pick a fight with me! For someone who is alone, you sure got guts!"

It is a threat.

I wrinkle my nose and lean closer, refraining myself from recoiling at the first whiff of his foul breath, and start whisper through gritted teeth. I am interrupted by a form moving between me and the tall man.

"She isn't alone," they breathe before I can speak for myself.

I recognize the voice instantly, and in the same moment, he wraps his arm around my shoulders. My heart leaps happily at the fact that he is alright and unharmed- not taken by the Association. "She's with me," Samuel smirks at the man, who pales in comparison to my friend. The man watches us for a second, but only spits on the ground and saunters off.