We talk easily—about nothing and everything. He tells me he works in his father’s construction business, that his life took a sharp turn after a car accident when he was eighteen, that he hadn’t planned on ending up here but doesn’t regret it. There’s a steadiness to him, a quiet resilience that I recognize.
“And you?” he asks. “You seem… enthusiastic.”
“Biologist,” I say, grinning. “This is basically my brain on fire.”
He snorts. “That tracks.”
I hesitate, then ask, “You’re here with…?”
“Akai,” he says without hesitation.
I choke a little on my drink. “The Mothman?”
His smile softens. “Yeah, well one of. He’s got a stall—sells some of the stuff he scavenges and makes. He has some great jewelry. I told him I wouldn’t be long.”
“I’ve heard so much about him,” I say, genuinely delighted. Boone has told me so many stories about Akai, who is apparently one of several Mothman—Mothmen?—though it took some time for him to finally share his real name with me.
“Mostly good, I hope.”
“Mostly chaotic,” I admit.
Cole laughs. “That’s fair.”
We part with an easy promise to talk again later, and I watch him weave back into the crowd, feeling lighter for the encounter.
Unity, I think. That’s the word.
Like meeting like. Relief and respect and recognition all wrapped together.
I drift on, alone again, and that’s when I feel it. Not danger. Not fear.
Attention.
I turn—and nearly freeze.
The Wendigo is tall and gaunt, all long lines and pale, frostbitten skin stretched over a frame that looks perpetuallystarved. His eyes glow faintly—not with threat, but with an intensity that still makes my skin prickle. He locks onto me, posture sharpening as recognition settles in.
Giles. I know his name because Boone murmured it when we arrived and already made it clear he’s not a danger—just dramatic, like most of his kind. Giles moves straight toward me with purpose, swift and direct, the kind of presence that would be terrifying if I didn’t already know better.
“Human,” he says, voice sharp and clipped. “You belong to Boone.”
I open my mouth, then close it. “I… yes?”
“Where is he?” he demands. “He should be here.”
“He stepped away,” I say carefully. “Is something wrong?”
The creature studies me, head tilting, gaze assessing in a way that reminds me—uncomfortably—of Boone when he’s in full Network-admin mode.
“You smell right,” he says finally. “Annoying. But right.”
I consider his words. “Thanks?”
He grunts. “I will see you again.”
And then he turns and stalks off, already focused on his next distraction, like he’s late for an appointment.
I stand there for a moment, heart pounding, then exhale slowly.
