It was part of our Wednesday rhythm—an hour of scooter traffic and scraped knees. Mia liked to sit on the bench near the swings and read while Leo tried to launch himself into air. I pushed him higher and higher until the wind flattened his bangs and he shrieked. Mia watched him, a book forgotten in her lap.
That’s when I noticed the mark.
At first it was a smudge in the wood, the kind of scratch a dog or a careless shoelace might leave. Then I saw the curved line and the little vertical notch. A symbol, hand-cut, ugly with purpose. My stomach tightened.
Mia leaned forward to steady Leo, smiling at him in that way that wiped the world clean. Then the smile faded. She crouched by the bench, fingers hovering over the carved mark, not touching at first as if it might bite.
She traced it with one fingertip. The motion sucked the air out of her face. She froze, eyes suddenly large and hard. I didn’t know whether to cross the grass and put my hand over hers or give her the space to decide.
That freeze—like someone had turned her off for a second and then back on—said what she feared: someone knew their routines. Someone had been close enough to the bench to leave a sign.
I felt the animal under my skin tighten, a muscle remembering how it had to be ready. My hands went to my pockets because I didn’t want to betray what I felt with a move she could interpret as possession.
“Caleb?” Leo’s small voice pulled both of us back. Mia looked up slowly. Her jaw worked. She swallowed.
“Nothing,” she said, voice hollowed by everything it meant not to say.
I wanted to tell her then—tell her how to follow threads and find faces in crowds. I wanted to tell her I could make the strangers go away by changing who stood on corners. I wanted to tell her the mark was a warning, a signature.
Instead I slid into the space beside her on the bench. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t need to. The boy swung higher, laughing, and the world moved on like it could be fixed with a push and a promise. But the wood under my fingers was rough and the mark was there, black and deliberate.
She tucked the book back into her bag with hands that didn’t look steady. I watched her through the quick shield of my fingers at the crease between her brows. She looked like a woman who had learned to hold storms in and ration her fear.
I kept my mouth closed. For now she had to keep control the way she needed to. I’d teach her how to let me help without giving up what she needed. And if someone thought to test her, they hadn’t met me yet.
She met my eyes. For a breath, something passed between us—fear, yes, but also a promise neither of us spoke aloud. We would protect him. We would keep the boy safe.
Leo flew through the sky on the swing, and the carved symbol on the bench watched us with a patience that didn’t bode well.
Mia’s finger lingered on that little notch as she stood. Her face went slack.
I watched her freeze and knew, without her saying it, that whatever had been watching us had found a way to name itself.
3
CALEB STONE
The man in the dirt-streaked hoodie doesn't know I've seen him until I step off the curb and he turns like a dog catching a scent. He tries to fold into the crowd, but he moves wrong—hesitant, looking over one shoulder instead of two. That tells me he isn't bored. That tells me he's tailing a six-year-old.
I slow, let the pack memory tighten in my chest, and let the city swallow me. My truck idles a block away under a jaundiced streetlight. I don't want a scene. I want evidence.
He leads us past the taco truck and the laundromat. Leo skips ahead, backpack thumping, his new sneakers squeaking on wet asphalt. Mia walks at his side, heels clicking, phone tucked against her ribs like a shield. She's all nerves wrapped in a tired woman's bones. She doesn't notice the man until she brushes close enough to feel his shadow. He straightens like a wire.
I don't move. I don't need to. My phone breathes against my palm and the camera on it is a hunter's eye. I take a picture of his shoulder, his profile through the crowd—keep it simple. The license plate is a smear in the glare. He steps into an alley, lowers his hoodie and pulls a cigarette. Habit. Contempt. Not a killer, maybe. But he has friends.
My feed is a map in my head: van to motel to a warehouse on the edge of town where men with shifty eyes sell fear for a living. I know the warehouse because Tanner ran a load through there once. I know the van because Vera saw it idling outside a group home and sent a photo. I know the men because the pack keeps names for threats. I also know what Mia can't afford—publicity, custody fights, more reasons the courts will say she needed outside help.
I follow him two blocks, keep my distance, and let my fingers tap out the keystrokes. City cams pick up the alley. A bus driver I used to drink coffee with has eyes like a hawk and gives me a time stamp. A corner deli owner hands me a receipt—time, card last four digits. The city gives up its secrets if you ask quietly and pay what you owe in favors.
I don't bring the pack into this yet. Not unless I have to.
When I slip back to Mia's building the sky over the rooftops is bruise-colored. She opens the door before I knock, hair still in a messy knot, sneakers forgotten by the mat. She scans my face like she's weighing whether I'm risk or lifeline.
"You followed him?" She isn't asking.
"Far enough," I say. The word tastes like warning.
She steps aside and I step into her kitchen, which smells like reheated coffee and sleepy kid food. Leo drags a stuffed dinosaur behind him. He sees me and grins like I'm part of the furniture now. That small warmth is a wound I keep from showing. I crouch and tie his shoelace without thinking; my fingers are steady.
