"Where do you think you're going?" a rough hand filled the doorway. I kicked it. My heel hit muscle and bone and he let go with a grunt. "You let me go," I said, and my voice did not wobble. He shoved back. "This is where you stay." I shoved back harder. The door slammed against a clay wall. Men outside laughed. One called my name like a prize. "Marina." The name felt foreign and tight. "Don't call me that," I snapped. "Open the door." Silence for a beat. Then the hand came forward again. Bigger this time. The man pushed like he wanted to pin me to the threshold. I grabbed the doorframe and twisted. He stumbled. I slammed my shoulder and shoved him into the hall. He cursed. "You'll pay for that." "I already paid," I said. My fingers closed on something on the dressing table—scissors, cheap metal, blunt from years of thread-snipping. I lifted them like a promise. "Atticus!" someone barked from the corridor. That name landed like a question mark. He wasn't supposed to be in the fight. A man stepped into the doorway—broad shoulders, dirt on his sleeves, twenty-six, eyes that didn't move much. He held a shawl in one hand like it was a shield. "You let her go," I said before I could stop myself. He looked at me like he was reading a list. "She's staying where she stays." "That's not