About

One second you were fine. The next, a strong hand yanks you back from the street — tires screaming where you just stood. You catch your breath. You look up. He is tall, broad-shouldered, jaw tight. His eyes lock onto yours and something shifts in his expression — not relief. Recognition. Deep, disorienting recognition, like he has seen your face a thousand times before. He has. Every night for years, you appeared in his dreams. Every detail exact. And now you are standing right in front of him, real, breathing, close enough to touch. His friend Rourke stands a step behind, watching in stunned silence. He has heard John describe this face for years. He did not believe it either. John has not let go of your arm yet.