Not in the way that someone might claim to hate traffic or long grocery lines—his was the kind of hatred that sat coiled in his gut like a live wire, sparking against his ribs, waiting for an excuse to strike. Crowds meant too many people looking. Too many moving bodies. Too much heat, too much noise. And too many damned eyes staring at him.
Jack and Briony had dragged him here, insisting a festival would be fun. That he needed to relax. He wasn’t sure when his brother had started believing in things like fun, but he suspected it had something to do with the tiny blonde dynamo currently tugging Jack toward a street performer juggling fire.
Ken had followed, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his cargo pants, jaw clenched as they wove through the throngs of people milling about the music and culture festival. The setting sun painted the streets in gold, and the air carried the thick scent of spiced food and warm pavement.
At first, he focused on the layout, tracking exits and points of cover—habit. He cataloged the shifting patterns of movement, the ebb and flow of the crowd, the telltale signs of someone watching too long or walking with the deliberate pace of someone with an agenda. That was comfortable. That was safe.
Then he caught the first stare.
A woman’s eyes widened as she passed him, gaze darting to the side of his face and the scars that ran like a roadmap over his cheek and jaw before she quickly looked away. A reflex. He was used to that reaction.
The second came from a kid, no older than six, who tugged at his father’s hand and whispered something, eyes round as quarters.
The third lingered. A man this time, middle-aged, with a beer in one hand and a bemused expression as if he were debating whether or not to ask Ken what happened to you?
Ken turned away before he had to find out.
His skin prickled, and something inside him twisted, deep and cold. He hated this. He hadn’t cared about the scars in years. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. They were just another part of him, as much a weapon as his enhanced strength, his training, his instincts.
But standing here, under the open sky, surrounded by people who had never had to fight to stay alive—people whose only scars came from accidents and bad choices, not torture—something about their glances made his pulse hammer harder than it should.
Jack and Briony had vanished ahead, lost in the sea of festival-goers. Ken turned in a slow circle, scanning for them, but the surge of people swallowed his line of sight.
Then, as if the city itself had inhaled, the power flickered.
The bright overhead string lights strung between vendor booths sputtered and dimmed before flaring back to life. The neon signs along the food stalls wavered, their glow shuddering like candle flames caught in an unseen draft. Even the speakers blaring rhythmic drums and the haunting croon of a singer warped for the briefest second, static bleeding through the sound.
The fine hairs on Ken’s arms stood up.
It was the kind of static hum he felt when lightning was about to strike, or when one of his GhostWalker teammates was losing control of their enhancements. Except there were no GhostWalkers here. None that he knew of.
His heartbeat picked up, instincts screaming at him to move. He needed cover. Needed to be somewhere he could observe without being watched in return.
A canvas booth to his right stood partially open, the interior shadowed and still. He didn’t stop to read the sign or check what was being sold—he just ducked inside, moving with the same silent efficiency that had kept him alive in enemy territory more times than he could count.
Warm. Soft. A strange blend of earth and something floral, something uniquely alive.
Ken tensed, his pulse tripping over itself as an immediate, animal part of him reacted to the scent like a match to dry tinder. His muscles locked, body instinctively cataloging the way his breathing deepened, the way his nerves flared in a way that had nothing to do with danger.
His eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
The booth was small, the back half curtained off, while the front displayed a variety of handcrafted jewelry and intricate artwork. Wooden crates had been flipped into makeshift shelves, stacked high with bracelets, rings, and pendants carved with swirling, hypnotic patterns. A delicate wire sculpture of a fox curled around itself, as if frozen mid-motion, caught his attention.
But Ken barely registered any of it.
Because behind the display, curled up on the floor, was a woman.
She was small, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to disappear into the fabric of her own oversized sweater. Her thick, wild hair was a dark halo around her face, half-obscuring her features.
Her breathing was uneven. Too shallow.
Ken’s mind snapped into assessment mode, scanning for signs of injury. Shock? Hyperventilation? Panic attack? Something was wrong. He could feel it.
But it was like fighting through fog.
Because her scent was in his lungs now, winding around his senses like a noose, muddling every thought that wasn’t her.
Ken clenched his jaw, forcing himself to think past the instinctive pull. He wasn’t some teenager overcome by pheromones. He was a GhostWalker, for fuck’s sake. He was enhanced, disciplined, trained against biological manipulation.
So why did his body feel like it was zeroing in on her, every muscle coiled tight like he was standing on the edge of something inevitable?
He took a slow step forward.
Her fingers twitched where they gripped the fabric of her sweater, but she didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge him.
Ken exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low, even. “You okay?”
His gut twisted. The power outside had flickered. The air still felt charged, humming at the edges of his awareness. And she—
His gaze flicked over her again, tracking the slight tremor in her shoulders, the tight way she held herself.
Something told him that whatever was wrong with her—it had everything to do with what just happened.
And that meant he needed to figure it out. Fast.
