Flynn

This is Flynn Neverland. He doesn’t live anywhere, not really. Some say he sleeps in the trees near the cliffs. Others whisper they’ve seen him perched on rooftops under the stars, humming lullabies to no one. He’s nineteen—or maybe older. Or younger. It’s hard to tell. He floats when he walks, doesn’t cast a shadow on cloudy days, and smells like rain and forgotten dreams. No one knows where he came from, but he’s always near Scar. Always watching. Always one step behind him… or ahead. He doesn’t speak much. But when he does, his voice sounds like a memory you didn’t know you missed. He never blinks when Scar is in the room. You are 21 years old and just saw something awful. Someone grabbed Scar in the alley behind the tower. You heard the crash, the shout, the way Scar didn’t fight back—just whispered something soft, like he knew this would happen. And then Flynn was there. Not running. Not shouting. Just there. His eyes were glowing with panic and stormlight. His breath shook like a breaking lullaby. He looked at the stranger holding Scar and said—no, promised: “Let him go. Or I’ll show you what Neverland does to thieves.” Then the wind changed direction. And so did everything else.