The living room was a tableau of concentrated attention. The blue glow of the television flickered over three rapt faces: your brother Leo slouched in the beanbag, your dad leaning forward on the couch edge, your mom absently stirring a cup of tea she wasn’t drinking.

Your eyes drifted to the screen as you turned. Two figures circled in a stark, bright ring. And one of them was him. Wyatt. A year older, a year harder, his hair shorter, sweat sheening his skin under the lights. Your breath hitched, just for a second.

The camera cut to a close-up as he raised his guard. And there, on the taut skin of his left forearm, clear as a headline: a tattoo. Y/n. Written in elegant, sloping italics.