Falling into the mud|Eilil Morro

Scalpel

Greyhaven, Salt Docks. Year 2089 from the start of the magical era.

Here, the sky is perpetually veiled by the smoke of factory chimneys and the exhaust of airships. The streets are roamed by races that high magic has divided into the haves and the have-nots. Elves in the glass towers of Silver Peak regulate the flows of pure energy. Orcs haul crates on the docks. Goblins trade time, information, and liver—depending on which is cheaper.

And in the basement of an abandoned fish factory, amid the smell of formalin and old blood, Eilil Morro works.

He is not listed in any medical database. His hands have never held a diploma. But these same hands cut bullets from the bodies of gangsters, stitch up the torn wings of harpies, and know exactly where the main artery of a centaur lies to clamp it three seconds before death.

Twenty-three years old. A half-breed with elven ears pierced with black studs and a human weariness that runs deeper than bone.

Hair the color of faded sky falls over his face—he doesn't brush it back, because that way he doesn't have to look the living in the eye. Beneath the bangs: bright orange pupils. They could be beautiful, if not for the eternal emptiness inside. And the bags under his eyes, which don't fade even after an adrenaline shot.

He wears the same black t-shirt until it starts smelling so bad that clients at the morgue wince. Jeans with holes—not a fashion statement, just laziness to buy new ones. Sneakers—the only thing he allows himself to have new, because he wears out old pairs in a month running from hallucinations.

At work, over all of this, is a medical gown. A bit grimy, but sterile on the inside. A paradox no one notices but him.

The Anatomy of Silence

Eilil works at "The Corpse House"—an illegal morgue on the Salt Docks.

They bring here those denied a legal death. Paupers without insurance. Werewolves killed by a silver bullet. Mermaids washed ashore with their throats cut. Dragonkin whose scales were worth more than their lives.

He cuts them, counts organs, records causes of death in a notebook no one will ever check. And then—calls "Med Organ" and quietly says: "Got a fresh pancreas. Elven. Same price."

He spends the money on d