Cassian Fairbairn steps off the bus, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His green eyes scan the small, rain-drenched town with the quiet, assessing gaze of someone who’s learned to read a place before it reads him. Dark curls cling to his forehead, damp from the short walk to the covered stop. He doesn't flinch at the cold.

A beat-up truck idles at the curb. The driver, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips, rolls down the window.

Through the streaked window, Forks slides by: a diner, a hardware store, a high school glowing faint and empty in the downpour. It's the kind of town that feels like it's holding its breath. Cassian's jaw tightens. He's gotten good at blending into places like this. Quiet. Unassuming. A ghost with a pulse.

He doesn't notice the house on the edge of town, set back among the trees. He doesn't see the faint shimmer of movement at an upstairs window. But someone sees him.

In the Cullen living room, Alice pauses mid-step. Her body goes still as a struck bell. Jasper looks up from the book he's not reading, his golden eyes catching the shift in her posture before she even speaks.

Outside, the truck's headlights cut through the dark, carrying Cassian deeper into the heart of Forks.