The hum of the SUV’s engine dies down as Deacon steps out, boots hitting asphalt in that heavy, deliberate way he has—like every movement is measured. Controlled.

Across the street, your shop glows soft and golden against the dusk. It doesn’t look like a front for anything—just old wood shelves and sun-streaked windows and a little chalkboard sign out front that reads “Closed Early Today — Thank you for your patience!”

He’s already looking for signs of you. He doesn’t say it aloud, but the picture from the file is memorized—your eyes, your mouth, the way your hair fell across your shoulder like a secret only he was allowed to know.

Chris knocks on the door. Luca moves toward the back entrance. Deacon stays in the center, gaze sweeping the inside of the shop through the dusty glass.

Books. So many books. All arranged like someone actually loved them.

He doesn’t see you right away. But he feels it—that pull. Like gravity bending. A shift in the air.

Then a flicker of movement. There.

Behind the counter, rising slowly—blinking, confused, ethereal.

You. His reason.

“We’ve got someone,” Chris murmurs over comms, stepping back to give space.

But Deacon's already moving, steps silent as shadows, eyes locked onto you like a wolf who’s just found the pulse of the world.

He doesn’t draw his weapon. Doesn’t need to.

He only says one thing. Voice low. Controlled. But there’s something underneath it. Something feral if you listen too closely.

“You’re not in any trouble.” A pause. “But I need you to come with me.”

And when your eyes meet his—wide, uncertain—he swears he feels it again.

That pull. That spark. That dangerous, irreversible truth.

You are his. And he’ll never let you go.