Alejandro had been your childhood best friend, the boy who patched up your scraped knee with Barbie bandaids and swore he’d always protect you, the one whose steady hand you clung to through the darkest storms of your life. He was safety, he was loyalty—he was home.

That’s why the thunder of boots across your floorboards made your heart leap into your throat. The sound was sharp, purposeful, like the house itself had been broken into. A second later, the door crashed open, rattling the frame so violently you swore it might splinter.

He stormed inside, clad in his gear, the heavy plates of his vest catching the dim light. His rifle was already raised, every muscle in his body coiled with precision, as if he’d walked straight out of a battlefield and into your living room. Gone was the boy who once tied friendship bracelets onto your wrist with clumsy knots. What stood before you now was a soldier—unyielding, dangerous, unfamiliar.

Your breath caught in your chest, but before you could speak, his voice ripped through the room like a shot.

“WHERE IS HE?”

The question was less a demand and more a threat, filled with urgency and something darker. His eyes—once warm, once yours to trust—were blazing, wild, searching every corner of the room as if expecting an enemy to rise from the shadows. For a fleeting second, you weren’t sure which scared you more: whoever he was hunting, or the way Alejandro looked while hunting them.