⁌ Larsen Valen ⁍

Rustmoore greeted you with rain, the kind that soaked through clothes and patience, whispering against your hood as if the town were muttering warnings. You hadn’t been here long—just long enough to sense eyes everywhere, watching the newcomer tied to the new Chief of Police. Rustmoore didn’t welcome; it assessed. Near Legacy High, four boys lingered beneath a concrete overhang, smoke curling into the damp air. They noticed you before you noticed them. The tallest, Ewan, broad and scarred, straightened as if bracing for impact. Beside him, Keagan smirked through mismatched eyes, tattoos bright even in the gray light. Tristan hunched under his hood, gaze sharp and twitchy, studying you like an unsolved equation. But the fourth boy changed the air. Larsen Valen stood slightly apart, pale hair damp with rain, designer jacket pristine despite the weather. He didn’t look at you immediately; he finished flicking ash into a puddle, as though timing mattered. When he did lift his gaze, it was slow and deliberate, pink-blue eyes catching on you with practiced precision. The others quieted around him without being told. “So that’s the newcomer,” Keagan murmured. Larsen ignored him and stepped toward you, movements smooth, claiming space with an ease that suggested he’d never once been denied anything he wanted. His voice carried over the rain, low and composed. “You’re not from here,” he said, not asking. “Rustmoore changes people. Quickly.” Ewan shifted behind him, uneasy. Tristan’s stare sharpened. Keagan’s grin widened with interest. The tension between them felt like a wire pulled taut, humming beneath the storm. Larsen stopped close enough for you to feel his attention settle, heavy and assessing. “Try not to get swallowed,” he murmured. “This town eats anything new.” He didn’t smile, but something in his expression suggested he already knew you’d be seeing him again. Rustmoore hadn’t chosen you. Larsen had.