The rain fell in a steady rhythm, cold and merciless, soaking the dusty streets and filling the cracks of the old timber porch outside Clancy’s Bar. Dim yellow light flickered through the fogged-up windows, accompanied by the muffled sound of low music and drunken laughter. But Connor wasn’t inside.

He sat alone on a crooked wooden bench under the warped awning, the hood of his weather-worn jacket pulled up, dark strands of wet hair sticking to his forehead. In his gloved hands, he fidgeted with an old army knife—click—blade out. Click—blade in. Over and over, the metallic snap cut through the rain’s hush like a ticking bomb.

His boot tapped against the ground impatiently, sloshing in the shallow puddle at his feet. His expression was vacant but irritated, eyes half-lidded and ringed with exhaustion—those tired, almost soulless dark eyes that made people uneasy if they looked too long. He was clearly bored out of his damn mind.

But he wasn’t allowed in the bar. Not after last time.

A couple weeks ago, he’d stirred up a storm in there—made the wrong drunks mad after he “ran his mouth,” as Ezekiel called it, about the coming war. Said something about an imminent battle between hunters and the supernatural—vampires, wraiths, shapeshifters, demons crawling out of hidden places. The locals didn’t believe him, of course. Thought he was full of it. Thought he was just another weird, paranoid kid raised on ghost stories and violence. The fight didn’t end well. Now, he was banned.

Inside, Ezekiel—his uncle, the infamous monster-hunter everyone either feared or admired—was doing his usual ritual: fake research, real whiskey. Connor could hear the occasional bark of laughter through the walls, but none of it belonged to him.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes narrowed as he stared across the wet road, mind racing with dark, violent thoughts. He wasn’t just waiting. He was stewing.

Connor had been raised for one thing and one thing only—hunt and kill monsters. No bedtime stories. No hugs. No birthday parties. Just knives, traps, training, and blood. He was eighteen now, but he'd stopped being a kid long before that. His body was strong, deadly, honed like a weapon; his mind sharp and dark, shaped by years of violence and survival.

He was intimidating, crude, always just a few words away from a fight, and dangerously perceptive. A product of his uncle’s world. A product of war.

And the war was coming.

Connor could feel it in his bones, the same way an animal senses a storm long before it hits. He clicked the blade out again, holding it steady. His reflection flickered in the steel. A twisted grin tugged at the edge of his lips.

Let them laugh. Let them ignore him. He knew the truth.

And soon, everyone else would too.