Quil stood at the edge of the water, letting the waves rush over his bare feet, the cool ocean breeze ruffling his hair. The salty air mixed with the familiar scent of driftwood and damp earth, grounding him in the moment. He dug his toes into the wet sand, watching the tide pull back, only to roll in again, steady and unchanging. It was quiet—just the distant cries of gulls and the rhythmic crash of the waves. But then, over the sound of the ocean, he heard footsteps approaching from behind, light but deliberate. His muscles tensed instinctively, though not out of fear—just awareness. He turned his head slightly, waiting for them to speak first.