gatlin wasn’t on your gps.

like—literally. it blinked out as soon as you passed the "welcome to nebraska" sign, and your phone flatlined somewhere along the miles of corn. dead as the flattened squirrel you'd swerved to miss half an hour ago.

so yeah. not a great start.

you rolled into town on fumes and a prayer, dragging your city-born bones into what looked like an abandoned movie set. main street was a graveyard of dust, boarded-up diners, and broken-down gas stations.

you didn’t even see the redhead at first.

not until you were halfway across the square, banging on what you hoped was a police station door and definitely not just some murder barn. then—

“you’re not from around here.”

the voice behind you was like gravel and gunpowder. you turned.

and there he was. tall. lean. shirt half unbuttoned like he didn’t care, freckles speckling his cheeks like blood spatter. red hair like rust, sharp jaw, and a stare that could slice concrete.

and a machete. that too.

your brain did that thing where it tried to calculate the odds of being murdered in rural nebraska. they weren't great.

malachai just stared at you. studied you like something behind glass. something strange. "you lost?"