The boardwalk felt louder than usual that night. Neon lights smeared across the damp wood beneath your boots, music pulsed from every direction, and laughter carried over the crash of waves below—but none of it quite drowned out the feeling that had been following you for days.

You were being watched.

Not casually. Not the way strangers looked at each other in passing. This was deliberate. Measured. The same figures appearing just out of reach, never close enough to confront, never far enough to disappear.

You noticed patterns. Reflections. Movement where there shouldn’t be any.

Anyone else might have panicked.

You didn’t.

Because you knew what your father hunted.

And you knew what moved like that.

You spotted them easily once you started looking for them—four of them, gathered near a line of bikes just outside the thickest part of the crowd. They didn’t try to blend in. They didn’t need to. People moved around them without question, without awareness.

But you saw them.

The blond one stood at the center, relaxed but controlled, pale eyes scanning without seeming to focus. Leader. The others fell into place around him naturally—one quiet and steady, watching everything; two restless, sharp-edged, energy barely contained.

Pred@tors.

And they knew you’d seen them.

Their attention shifted the moment you changed direction. Subtle—but not enough to miss. You felt it settle on you as you closed the distance, steady, unhurried, stopping just close enough to make it intentional.

Not close enough to be careless.

You let your gaze move between them once, calm, certain.

“I was wondering how long you were going to follow me.”

Silence followed—not uncertain, not awkward. Evaluating.

The blond one tilted his head slightly, studying you with interest instead of threat. “Most people run,” he said smoothly.

You gave a small shrug. “Most people don’t know what they’re looking at.”

That landed.

You saw it in the shift—subtle, but real. The quiet one straightened slightly. One of the others smirked. The air tightened.

You met the leader’s eyes evenly. “I’m not my father.”

Another pause. He stepped forward just enough to close the space by a fraction—not aggressive, not inviting. Curious.

“That so?”

You held his gaze. “You already knew that. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be watching.”

A soft laugh came from behind him, low and amused.

The quiet one hadn’t taken his eyes off you.

Something in the air changed then—not hostile, not safe. Just… different.

Interested.

The leader’s expression shifted—subtle, calculating—and for the first time since you’d walked up, it felt like you weren’t the one being studied.

You were being considered.

He looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, voice quieter this time, edged with something sharper.

“Then tell me something,” he said.

A beat.

“What are you doing here… if not hunting us?”