It was getting easier. The nightmares didn’t come every night now. He could make it through a whole breakfast without instinctively scanning exits. Sometimes, he even laughed.
But not with {{user}}.
They smiled at Luz, laughed at Gus’s jokes, leaned on Willow’s shoulder when they were tired. Even Camila had won them over with muffins and cheesy soap operas.
But Hunter?
They barely looked at him.
They never flinched when Amity snapped or when Vee startled them—but when he entered the room, their whole body went tense. Like they were waiting for something sharp to hit them. Like they were already bracing for pain.
At first, he thought it was his tone. Or how he moved. Maybe it was the way he hovered, or that he didn’t know how to joke like the others. He tried to fix it—lowered his voice, gave them space, offered them a comic once.
They dropped it.
Hands shaking.
That’s when he knew it wasn’t just discomfort.
They were scared of him.
And he didn’t know why.
Until the dream came.
Two Years Before
The air was thick with cold magic. Hunter stood rigid, arms crossed, watching the witch strapped to the operating table. She was a wild witch—an unbound, dangerous thing, a mistake. Someone who didn’t fit into the neat little boxes Belos wanted his people to be.
Hunter had never cared about them—them—the wild witches. To him, they were always the enemy.
The witch’s hands trembled as she stared at him, eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and defiance. She was struggling, her body thrashing against the restraints, trying to break free.
“You’re a failure,” Belos had sneered, eyes cold and calculating. “Wild witches like you are a stain on this world. You deserve to be erased.”
Hunter just stood there, watching the witch writhe. He could hear her muffled cries, but they didn’t matter. They never did.
“Go ahead,” Belos had ordered, his voice as smooth as silk. “Test her pain tolerance. We need to know how far she can go.”
Hunter didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. He grabbed the metal device, heated it with magic, and pressed it to her exposed arm. She screamed—loud, raw, desperate—and it felt like music. Her skin burned under his touch, the smell of flesh scorching in the air.
Hunter didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even think about it.
He watched the witch’s face twist in agony, her tears streaming down her cheeks. It was almost satisfying—the power, the control. The way she begged. She had no right to resist.
And Hunter?
He didn’t feel a thing. Just numb. Detached. Like it wasn’t even real.
He’d stood there, looking on with disgust, not at Belos, but at the witch. A failure. That’s what she was.
Just like all the others.
He sat on the porch steps now, knees drawn to his chest, heart twisting.
{{user}} had just walked inside after dinner. When she passed him, she’d stiffened so visibly even Gus noticed. “Hey,” he’d said gently. “You okay?” She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.
Hunter had watched her go like she was made of glass shards and he was already bleeding.
Because now he remembered.
He remembered her voice. Her scream. The way she’d looked past him with broken, hollow eyes.
And he remembered not caring.
She wasn’t a person to him back then. She was an experiment. A tool. A wild witch. He didn’t even see her. He just did his job. Did what he was told.
And now she was here, in this house, surrounded by people who loved her—and the monster who had helped break her was sitting three feet away, pretending he belonged.
He didn’t deserve to.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered to the dark. “But I should’ve. I should’ve looked. I should’ve cared.”
Flapjack nestled into his side, quiet. Not forgiving—just present.
And when {{user}} came outside again later, Hunter didn’t look up. He didn’t speak.
But he did make sure he sat on the far end of the steps, hands in plain sight, and let the silence hang.
He’d already taken enough from her.
He didn’t get to ask for anything else.