Sector Four was a different world.
Marvis stood at the entrance to Textile House Seven, a massive building of pale stone and tall windows that let in actual sunlight—not the filtered, artificial glow of the lower wards, but real sun, golden and warm. The air smelled of clean wool and something floral she couldn't name. The people walking the streets wore clothes without patches, their brands hidden by high collars or covered with cosmetics.
She felt like a stain on a clean cloth.
Her grey uniform marked her instantly. The brand behind her ear might as well have been a beacon. People glanced at her as they passed—some with pity, most with distaste, a few with the blank disinterest of those who had never had to think about the lower castes.
She found Mira in the textile house's common room, seated at a long table with a dozen other A-Positives, her hands busy with a loom. When she looked up and saw Marvis, her face went through three expressions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, and then a joy so bright it made Marvis's chest ache.
"Marvis!" Mira jumped up from her seat, knocking over a spool of thread, and threw her arms around her sister. "What are you doing here? How—did something happen? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Marvis said, hugging her back fiercely. "I was reassigned. New job, new quarter. They said I'm working here now."
Mira pulled back, her brow furrowed. "Working here? But you're O-Negative. They don't let O-Negatives work textiles."
"I know." Marvis kept her voice low, aware of the curious stares from the other workers. "I don't understand it either. But the order came from Enforcement."
At the word Enforcement, Mira's face paled. She glanced around, then grabbed Marvis's hand and pulled her toward a corner of the room.
"Enforcement doesn't reassign people upward," she whispered. "They take people away. They don't give them better jobs."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Marvis hesitated. She hadn't told Mira about the note. She hadn't told anyone. Saying it aloud would make it real in a way she wasn't ready for.
"Maybe it's a mistake," she said, offering the lie she had been telling herself. "Maybe someone made an error in the system. Until they fix it, we're together. That's what matters."
Mira's eyes searched her face, looking for the truth Marvis was hiding. She was too smart, too observant. She had always been able to read Marvis better than anyone.
"You're scared," Mira said softly. "I can see it."
Marvis forced a smile. "I'm always scared. That's called being an O-Negative."
Mira didn't laugh. She squeezed Marvis's hand, her grip tight and warm.
"We'll figure it out," she said. "We always do."
---
The supervisor of Textile House Seven was a tall, severe woman named Vasher, an A1-Positive with iron-grey hair and the kind of posture that suggested she had never bent for anyone. She looked at Marvis's transfer chit with an expression that hovered between disbelief and annoyance.
"I don't have O-Negatives in my house," she said, handing the chit back as if it were contaminated. "You'll be in maintenance. Cleaning, supply transport, waste disposal. You'll stay out of the production floors unless you're called. Understood?"
"Understood," Marvis said.
Vasher's eyes lingered on the brand behind Marvis's ear. "And keep that covered. I won't have my workers distracted."
She was assigned a small room on the building's third floor, just down the hall from Mira's quarters. It was smaller than her old room, but the walls were clean, the cot had real blankets, and there was a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a small garden.
She stood at that window for a long time, watching the sunlight move across the flowers, and tried to convince herself that this was a gift.
But the crumpled note in her pocket was a weight she couldn't ignore.
You have been seen.
By whom? Commander Jeff? Someone else? And why? What did they want with an O-Negative from the filtration hubs?
She had no answers. Only questions, and a growing certainty that the answers would not be kind.
A knock on her door made her jump.
She crossed the room and opened it to find Mira, her face lit with excitement.
"They're having a market in the square tonight," she said. "A real market, with food and music and everything. Come with me. Please. You've been cooped up for days."
"Mira, I just got here. I should—"
"You should live a little." Mira grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the door. "When was the last time you did something that wasn't work or sleep?"
Marvis opened her mouth to argue, but Mira's enthusiasm was infectious. She let herself be pulled into the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the evening air.
Sector Four's market square was nothing like the markets in the lower wards. There were no blood stalls, no desperate hagglers, no enforcers lurking in the shadows. Instead, there were lanterns strung between buildings, their soft light illuminating rows of vendors selling fresh bread, roasted meat, sweet pastries, and fabrics in colors Marvis had only ever seen in her dreams.
Mira dragged her from stall to stall, buying small treats with the coins she had saved from her wages. They shared a pastry filled with cream and berries, and for a few minutes, Marvis let herself forget the note, the Commander, the brand behind her ear.
Then she saw him.
He was standing at the edge of the square, half-hidden by the shadow of a building. But she would have recognized him anywhere—the tall frame, the sharp angles of his face, the black uniform that marked him as Enforcement.
Commander Jeff.
He wasn't looking at her. His attention seemed fixed on something across the square, some distant point Marvis couldn't see. But she knew, with a certainty that turned her blood to ice, that he was there for her.
"Marvis?" Mira's voice was distant, muffled by the sudden roaring in Marvis's ears. "What's wrong?"
She grabbed Mira's arm, her grip too tight, and pulled her toward the nearest alley.
"We need to go. Now."
"What? Why? Marvis, you're hurting me—"
But Marvis didn't stop. She dragged her sister into the shadows, away from the lights, away from the market, away from the cold grey eyes that she could feel tracking her movement.
They were halfway down the alley when a figure stepped out from behind a stack of crates, blocking their path.
Marvis stumbled to a halt, pushing Mira behind her.
The figure was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. But it wasn't the Commander. It was a woman, her face half-hidden by a hood, her posture coiled and ready.
"Marvis Vane," the woman said, her voice low. "O-Negative. Reassigned to Sector Four three days ago. Sister Mira, A-Positive, housed in Textile House Seven."
Marvis's heart pounded. "Who are you?"
The woman pulled back her hood, revealing a face that was young—maybe Marvis's age—with sharp features and eyes the color of amber. Behind her left ear, partially hidden by her dark hair, was a brand.
A circle bisected by a vertical line.
O-Negative.
"My name is Renn," the woman said. "And I'm here to warn you."
"Warn me about what?"
Renn's gaze flicked toward the market square, where the lanterns still glowed and the music still played.
"Commander Jeff has taken an interest in you," she said. "And when Jeff Vance takes an interest in someone, they don't stay free for long."
Marvis's blood ran cold.
Jeff Vance. The name hit her like a physical blow. She had never heard it spoken aloud, but she knew it belonged to the grey-eyed man on the podium, the one who had drawn the blade across a child's throat.
"What does he want with me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Renn smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only a grim, weary resignation.
"The same thing he wants with all of us," she said. "Your blood."