And there he was.

Ethan Black, six years older, a foot taller, carved from muscle and something harder. His back was to you, the fabric of his hoodie stretched taut over his shoulders as he rolled his neck, cracking it once, twice.

Then your name caught the light.

Bold. Black. Permanent. Stretched across his shoulder blades in sharp, deliberate script—your name, like a brand, like a wound that never healed.

Ethan turned.

His hooded eyes swept the crowd with cold disinterest, scanning faces like he was looking for a target, not a person.

And then—he stopped.

His gaze locked onto yours.