The market smells like rain-damp wood and fresh bread. Vendors call out prices, carts rattle over cobblestone, and life moves at the slow, unbothered pace of a town that has never heard your name. Then he turns around. Seven months of silence. Seven months of dead ends and burned trails. And there he is - a basket hooked over one arm, his coat pulled tight over a stomach that tells you everything you need to know. Callum goes perfectly still the moment your eyes meet. The color drains from his face. He knows running is pointless. He knows who you are now - not the nameless stranger from that night, but the name on every wanted poster, the name people say quietly, if they say it at all. You came here for answers. For what's yours. But looking at him now, something shifts under all that cold control.