Page 51 of Property of Scar

Typical.

I’m three reps into the set before I actually look at him.

Scar moves through the workout with the same cold precision he brings to everything else. Every rep is controlled, every movement is exact, like his body was built to efficiently handle punishment and learned a long time ago how to do it.

But something about it feels off.

He’s putting the work in, but his head is nowhere near this room. I can see it in the way he moves through each repetition like he’s running on instinct alone, conditioned response carrying the load while his thoughts stay trapped somewhere else entirely.

The gap between the two feels bigger than it should.

And whatever is sitting in that distance looks heavy.

I finish my set, then drop the bar. “You look like you got three hours of sleep and none of them were good ones,” I say, reaching for my water.

He sets the weight down, without argument. “That obvious?”

“To me.” I roll my neck, feeling the pop. “The prospects didn’t notice?”

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite amusement but something flatter than that.

“The prospects picked up on it quick enough in the van,” he says it flat, like it’s nothing more than another piece of information and not something worth wasting energy on. Then he grabs the weight again and keeps going, giving the conversation about as much attention as a man swatting flies. “After that… not so much.”

I let it sit for a second.

That’s something I’ve learned with him. You don’t push, not unless you’re looking to hit a wall. He moves when he decides to, not before, and forcing it just makes it clear you’re not getting in.

The weight drops back down with a solid thud.

“We encountered a hollow last night.” The words come out controlled, but there’s a fracture under them, something that doesn’t quite settle. “In the Voss shipment. The hollow got loose.” He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing what to say next instead of it coming easily. “I let it in.” Silence stretches, heavier than it should be, and for a second too long, his gaze isn’t here. It’s somewhere else.

My body goes still before I can stop it.

A tiny shift, but inside me, something snaps tight and sharp.

I know exactly what that means.

Not from stories, and not from whispered warnings designed to keep rookies obedient.

I know what hollows do when they get inside somebody. I know how they hollow people out from the inside, piece by piece, while they’re still breathing. I know the look in a victim’s eyes afterward. The empty spaces they leave behind—the parts of a person that never come back, even if the body survives.

And suddenly every instinct I have is awake and reaching for violence.

You don’t walk away from that.

You don’t stand there after and talk about it like it’s just another problem that needs solving.

My eyes move over him before I can stop them, quick, assessing, looking for cracks he’s not showing.

There should be something.

There should be evidence.

There isn’t.

And that is worse.

Something tightens low in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.