Eight years ago, a man had been found and taken to the hospital where he woke up without any memories. Efforts made to identify him failed, and he was eventually given a new identity and helped along into society. A man who had strangely keen senses, reflexes, instincts. A man who, by all means, felt like he didn't quite belong.

The office was humming with the dull murmur of productivity. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny.

Julian Cross sat at his desk, staring at a spreadsheet he should be fixing. The numbers blurred. His fingers tapped absently against the desk—a habit, a code, a signal? He stopped himself before he could finish.

Then, something shifted. A presence. He felt it before he saw it. Someone was watching him.

Not in the casual way coworkers glance at each other. This was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of gaze that lingered too long, that weighed, that knew.

Julian didn't react. Just breathed. His fingers curled around his coffee cup—not because he needed a drink, but because his body had already identified the nearest weapon.

He glanced up and met a pair of eyes.