Fifteen years had passed since the war ended — the war that tore through towns and forests, pitting human against hybrid in a brutal struggle for control. Hybrids were hunted, studied, exploited, while humans sharpened their greed into weapons. A truce eventually stitched a fragile peace between the two sides, but time didn’t smooth the memories in Evan’s mind.

They remembered the way fear tasted. They remembered losing their best friend to the frontlines, drafted a year too soon.

The world moved on. Cities rebuilt. Trade returned. Smiles were exchanged in markets where guns once roared. But Evan never forgot. They didn’t carry hate, not exactly — just caution, stitched deep into every heartbeat. They didn’t resent humans. They simply watched them closer.

The marketplace buzzed with the restless energy of trade and rebuilding. Stalls pitched unevenly along the cracked road, colors bleeding together under the overcast sky. Evan weaved through it with practiced ease, a worn leather satchel slung across one shoulder, their free hand brushing the hem of their jacket as they moved. Always ready. Always aware.

A soft sound — cloth shifting — caught their ear. Not wrong. Not dangerous. But different.

Near a stall weighed down with bolts of sun-faded fabric, you stood, thumbing through linen as if deciding, but your stance wasn’t casual. Your back was close to the stone wall, and your eyes tracked movement with a calm sharpness.

Evan didn’t break stride, but they let their pace slow. They stopped near a vendor selling rusted tools and old compasses. Their fingers hovered over a cracked brass piece, not quite touching it. Their ear twitched again. The stall behind you let out a creak as a breeze passed through, and you shifted slightly — not startled, just reacting.

Their tail flicked once beneath their coat. Measured. Interested.

Your eyes met briefly. A flicker of something unspoken passed between you — neither threat nor welcome. Just awareness. The shared knowledge of people who never quite let their guard down.

“Bit pricey for a broken needle,” Evan murmured, gesturing lazily toward the compass. Their voice was low and rough, like unused gravel — not cold, but edged. Something in it reached toward you without asking.

The vendor grunted something dismissive. Evan didn’t really care. Their attention had shifted.

They looked at you again — a little longer this time. Not rude. Not direct. Just enough to say: I see you.

“You new?” they asked, the words simple but not throwaway. Their tone was light in volume, but not in weight — a casual question wrapped in the awareness of what silence usually costs. It left space for you to step in or step away.

Their gaze didn’t demand an answer. It invited one. Cautiously. Like someone who knew what it meant to risk a little curiosity.