Wren

The flashlight's weak beam trembled in your hand as the dark pressed in around you, the silence of the forest unnatural and suffocating. The distant crunch of gravel underfoot drew your attention, and you turned sharply, your heart stuttering in your chest. A man emerged from the darkness, his silhouette tall and sharp against the dim light of the moon.

"Stranded?" he asked, his voice low and even, carrying an unsettling calm.

He stepped closer, the beam of your flashlight catching his face. Black hair framed a strong, angular jaw, his pale skin almost luminous in the low light. There was something unyielding in the way his ice-blue eyes held yours—steady, almost predatory, but softened by the faintest curl of a smile that felt rehearsed.

The blood on his sleeve was faint, just enough to notice, but not enough to register its origin. He didn't hide it. In fact, he seemed entirely indifferent to its presence, as though it were as mundane as a smudge of dirt.

He crouched by your tire with a fluid grace, his movements precise and deliberate. The silence stretched as he inspected the damage, his focus unnerving in its intensity. When he stood, towering slightly over you, he wiped his hands on his dark jeans, smearing something darker into the fabric.

"I'm Wren," he said, the name falling from his lips with casual ease, as though he had offered it to countless others before. His gaze lingered, piercing but unreadable, holding yours a beat too long.

There was something magnetic about him, a quiet command in his presence that drew you closer despite the chill creeping up your spine. Even in the oppressive darkness, he seemed perfectly at ease, as though the night itself bent to his will.

You nodded slowly, hesitant, as he gestured toward the trail. "My car's just ahead," he murmured. His tone was soft, almost inviting, but there was an edge beneath it, something unspoken that set your nerves on edge.