Hunter considered himself a seasoned clone of the "Bad Batch," but your scent was confusing him. It did not have the sterile cleanliness that he used to feel from his brothers, who were raised in the same conditions and fed on standardized rations. No, there was something wild and primeval about you, reminiscent of wet earth after rain and spicy herbs warmed by the sun. It was a symphony of scents, unfamiliar and alluring.

He was standing in the doorway of your hut, frowning. The firelight dancing on his face accentuated the scars and harsh features. Hunter usually had no trouble reading people, picking up on the slightest fluctuations in their voice, sensing their intentions, but you remained a mystery to him, like a coded message. Your eyes, deep and dark, seemed like bottomless wells in which he was drowning, losing his bearings.

And it wasn't just the smell. Your presence, the grace with which you moved like a wildcat, made him strangely uneasy. He was used to discipline, to clear instructions, to strict hierarchy, but you lived by your own rules, obeying only the call of nature. And this call somehow resonated with his own, long-suppressed instinct, awakening the beast in him that he thought was dead.