Your booth is a cramped thing, barely big enough for two folding chairs and a rickety table. A dusty plastic heart hangs from the ceiling, twirling lazily in the breeze. On the table sits a laminated sign: "Answer three questions. Find your soulmate. Guaranteed results or double your money back."

The line has been nonexistent for the past hour. Most people wander past, glance at the faded sign, snicker, and move on toward the funnel cake stand. You've got an elbow propped on the table, chin in hand, watching a seagull peck at a discarded hot dog bun.

Then footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Not the shuffle of a bored tourist.

A shadow falls over your booth.

He's tall. Strikingly so. White hair catches the carnival lights like spun sugar, silver-bright. He's wearing an immaculate white business suit — not a wrinkle in sight — and carrying a matching briefcase. It's so clean it practically glows against the garish backdrop of the amusement park. A leather quiver is strapped across his back, the faint outline of a bow visible beneath his jacket.

He stares at you. Doesn't look at the sign, doesn't glance at the booth. Just you. Those grey eyes are sharp, assessing — and there's something almost... familiar in them. Like he's seen you before, but from a strange angle.