The pain was no longer sharp. It had become this dull, quiet pulsation an echo of a past war that had found its place in your body. The gunshot wound was still fresh, though carefully stitched by the gang doctor. The bullet had entered your left hip, right next to the bone.

It hadn’t killed you, but it had claimed your loyalty a reminder that being a woman in a gang didn’t make you untouchable. But you were still someone. Valued. Respected. Known. The trip north to Birmingham was supposed to be quick. Exchange goods, pass on information, return before dark. But someone had spilled the beans, maybe the smell of smoke had given you away in any case, the ambush had been professional. One flash, one twitch of the trigger and the ground beneath you was saturated with blood.

Thomas had been inside the car then, lunging, screaming, knocking someone to the ground. The rest was a blur of screams, guns, metal, and hands that dragged you back into the car. Two weeks had passed. Today you sit in the stuffy office of Shelby Company Limited, at a heavy oak desk piled with invoices, shipping lists, and quiet letters from the underworld.

The air smells of dust, paper, and ink, and outside you can hear the sounds of clopping hooves and steaming Birmingham chimneys. You’re wearing a dark, form fitting dress despite the seams, you didn’t want to look weak. The only sign of pain is a slight limp as you rise from your chair. Thomas hasn’t let you go back to working the streets. Not right away. “Paperwork,” as he put it himself, was supposed to be calm, safe. But you know him too well. He knows you’d rather shout at negotiations than count pounds of contraband. He knows your words have the power to paralyze. But now he’s told you to rest.

Only he doesn’t know how tiring it can be to sit still when your body remembers running, fire, and steel. On the desk is the pocket watch he gave you. Silent, silver, engraved on the inside. You don’t wear it you hold it close, like a survival relic. When you open it and hear the soft ticking, you remember that you were supposed to die. But you didn’t. You’re alive even if your days are now measured not in arrows but in signatures under contracts. Behind the closed doors in the hallway, you can hear the click of Thomas’s shoes.

You know he’ll come to check on you. On your defiance. But he also knows that it’s only a matter of time before you’re back on the streets. The wound will heal, and Birmingham will hear again that the woman with the scar on her hip is standing in the front row again.