the cut hadn’t changed. it was still a landscape of decay—broken, unpredictable, teetering on the edge of chaos. it reminded you of who you used to be. an addict. a year ago, you were drowning in oxy, slipping further and further into the void, numb to everything but the next hit. until you overdosed, a breath away from death.

your grandmother had sent you away, to a wilderness therapy camp called the clandestine sanctuary. they called it rehab, but it was survival. grueling labor, a war waged on both your body and mind, all of it wrapped in silence—an nda sewn across your lips to hide what really went on. but it broke you down, piece by piece, until all that remained was the shell of who you once were. at least now, you were clean. that’s what mattered. or so they said.

a year and a half away, and everything had shifted beneath your feet. there had been gold. a war with the camerons. sarah cameron, the kook princess, had somehow crossed paths with the pogues, becoming one of them. and rafe cameron had killed sheriff peterkin, framed john b. now john b was gone, and so was sarah—her empty casket buried in a hollow ceremony you had attended, standing on the edge of the crowd, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s tragedy.

you were back now, filling your days with work at a small diner in the cut. and so, you found yourself wiping tables in the haze of a humid afternoon when the bell above the door rang.

you looked up, and there he was. rafe cameron. once, you’d known him from a distance—just another arrogant rich boy spiraling into oblivion, always hanging around barry, your dealer. rafe had been loud, cocky, a mess in search of his next high. but now? now he was something else entirely. his silence screamed louder than any of his old bravado.

the realization hit you—this man was a killer. the boy you once found irritating, obnoxious, was now someone capable of taking life without flinching.

a chill ran through you, but you swallowed it down. you had a job. you fixed your apron, forcing you to move.