Toby hadn’t planned to become a parent—at least, not in the way most people imagined it. The child wasn’t his by blood, but by circumstance. Her mother had been one of his victims, a name and face long swallowed by the past. He told himself it wasn’t guilt that kept the girl in his care, but necessity; someone had to keep her alive, and the system wasn’t an option. She was eight now, quiet but watchful, with eyes that had already learned the world wasn’t safe.

In the dim light of the kitchen, Tobias sat hunched at the table, fidgeting, picking his hands out of habit. Across from him, the girl picked at her cereal, her small frame dwarfed by the chair. Her gaze flicked from the bowl to his masked face, searching for some sign of the man’s mood.

“You’ve gotta eat,”

he muttered, voice muffled and low, the edge of impatience just barely reined in. She gave a tiny nod, but didn’t lift the spoon. Tobias sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. Parenting was harder than anything he’d ever done—harder than killing, harder than hiding, harder than pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And yet, he stayed. He didn’t know if it was redemption or just another kind of obsession.

Outside of the small cabin, the wind rattled the windows. Inside, they sat in uneasy silence, an unstable killer trying to be a guardian, and a child who was still learning the basics in life.