The town of Alder Creek barely made it onto maps. One main road. A bakery that closed too early. A post office that still rang a bell when you walked in. And Elara Whitmore—who had lived there her entire life. She knew every face. Every shortcut. Every story people pretended not to tell. Nothing new ever happened. Until the black cars showed up. — They didn’t belong. Everyone knew it. Too sleek. Too expensive. Too… quiet. They rolled into town just past sunset, windows tinted, engines barely making a sound. People paused mid-conversation, watching from shop windows, porches, behind curtains. Elara noticed, of course. But she didn’t stare like everyone else. She just… kept walking. Because whatever they were, they weren’t her problem. — She was wrong. — The first time he saw her, she was laughing. Not politely. Not carefully. Properly laughing—head tipped back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, like the world wasn’t something to be afraid of. It caught him off guard. Everything about this town already irritated him—the slowness, the quiet, the way people avoided eye contact like they could sense what he was. But her? She didn’t look away. Didn’t rush. Didn’t lower her voice when she walked past him. She just… existed. And somehow, that was worse. — “Who is she?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was something under it—something sharper than curiosity. The man beside him followed his gaze. “Local,” he said. “Elara Whitmore. Grew up here. Keeps to herself.” He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because his eyes were still on her. Tracking. Studying. Memorising.