Jayla’s Point of View

I don’t know why I followed him.

Maybe because silence had weight — and he carried it like a weapon.

The hallway to the garage was cold. Bare walls. Dim light.

I heard the faint click of metal before I saw him.

He was sitting on the tailgate of a matte-black truck, shirt sleeves rolled up, disassembling a rifle with surgical precision.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Each piece placed down like part of a ritual.

There was something almost hypnotic about it — the quiet rhythm of metal against metal, the steady pulse of focus.

Then I saw the scars.

Lines of pale silver carved across his forearms, shoulders, even the edge of his neck — some thin like threads, others deep like history.

My throat went dry.

He noticed me.

Didn’t turn, didn’t startle — just said softly,

“Curiosity’s a dangerous habit.”

I froze. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted, a faint grin touching his mouth. “You did.”

I stepped closer, heart pounding. “You’re not cleaning that for fun.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached beside him, pulled out a slim case, and opened it.

Inside — two handguns, throwing knives, and a sleek black katana with faint crimson symbols carved along the blade.

The air thickened.

“That’s not regulation military,” I whispered.

He finally looked at me. His eyes — dark, steady, sharp enough to cut through silence.

“No. It’s personal.”

“Who are you, really?” I asked.

He studied me, as if deciding how much truth I could survive. Then he set the rifle aside and leaned back against the truck.

“I’m what the world makes when it breaks a kid too early,” he said quietly. “When they decide you’re better as a weapon than a person.”

I didn’t breathe.

He kept talking — voice low, calm, terrifyingly honest.

“I’ve done things that don’t make it into files. Things I stopped keeping count of. Some people call it mercenary work. Some call it survival.”

I shook my head slowly. “That can’t be all you are.”

He smiled — not kindly. “It’s enough for the people hunting me.”

“Hunting you?”

He nodded once, picking up a folded document from the seat beside him and tossing it over. I caught it, hands trembling.

Thirty-two names.

Thirty-two states.

All marked WANTED.

And at the top — Ja’kari Vance.

My stomach dropped. “Oh my God.”

He looked away, voice quiet. “Relax. They’ll never find this place.”

I stared at him — this man who’d saved us, joked with us, flirted over breakfast — and realized he wasn’t just dangerous.

He was haunted.

Not by guilt.

By memory.

The kind of man who didn’t sleep because every dream was a battlefield.

“What… what did they make you do?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just reached up and reassembled the rifle, piece by piece, like the question didn’t exist.

Then, almost gently, he said, “You should go inside, Jayla.”

“I can help—”

“You can’t.”

His tone wasn’t cruel — it was final.

A line drawn for my safety, not my exclusion.

So I left. Slowly.

But as I reached the door, I looked back once more.

He was sitting there in the dim garage light, shadows painting his face, cleaning his weapon with that same eerie calm.

And for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something in his eyes — regret.

⸻

Back inside, the house was quiet again.

The others had drifted into their rooms. Only the hum of the fireplace filled the hall.

I leaned against the wall, heart still pounding, trying to process what I’d seen.

Wanted in thirty-two states.

Mercenary.

Haunted.

And yet… he’d made breakfast with us hours ago.

He’d smiled. He’d laughed.

He’d flirted.

He’d been human.

⸻

Later, I sat in the library, pretending to scroll my tablet, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything — the scars, the precision, the weight in his voice when he said they made me.

The fire crackled softly, shadows dancing across the walls.

I didn’t notice Asia until she sat across from me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

I shook my head. “Just… thinking.”

She smiled faintly. “You always are.”

For a moment, we sat in silence — the comfortable kind that comes after chaos. Then, before I could stop myself, I asked,

“Why do you like him?”

Her eyes flicked up, startled. “Who?”

I gave her a look. “Ja’kari.”

Asia hesitated, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word.”

“Then what is it?”

She exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “He’s different. Everyone here tries to be something — loud, fearless, strong. But him? He doesn’t try. He just is. Like he’s already lived three lives before this one.”

I listened, heartbeat steady but uneasy.

Asia’s voice softened. “He’s quiet, but when he talks… you listen. And when he looks at you, it’s like he already knows who you are — even the parts you don’t want people to see.”

I swallowed. “That’s… dangerous.”

She smiled a little. “So’s he.”

I didn’t tell her what I’d seen.

The weapons. The files. The truth.

Because somehow, I knew if she knew, it would break her heart before it ever broke her trust.

We sat there a while longer, the firelight flickering against the glass windows — the forest outside whispering like it knew something we didn’t.

Then the lights flickered.

Once. Twice.

Then the power cut out.

Total silence.

Asia looked up, confused. “Was that—?”

A low hum vibrated through the floorboards, followed by the faint crunch of tires on gravel.

My pulse spiked. “Someone’s here.”

Asia stood slowly. “Ja’kari said no one knew this place existed.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, heart hammering, “well, apparently someone does.”

The front gate’s motion sensor light flickered back on — just enough to cast long, pale shadows across the window.

Two figures stood at the edge of the clearing.

Identical.

Tall, armored, faces hidden behind black masks streaked with red.

Then, through the heavy air, one of them shouted — voice distorted but clear.

“JA’KARI VANCE! COME OUT NOW — OR WATCH THEM DIE!”

The echo slammed through the trees like thunder.

Asia’s face went pale.

I felt my blood turn to ice.

The second voice followed — colder, deeper.

“You can hide behind walls, brother. But you can’t hide from what you made us.”

Twin mercenaries.

Not just enemies.

Family.

The woods erupted in the sound of mechanical clicks — safeties unlocking, weapons arming.

And in that moment, every trace of warmth from breakfast, every quiet second of laughter, vanished.

The mansion was no longer a home.

It was a battlefield waiting to wake.