Hawthorne

Ancient bowstrings hum in your apartment's walls, a warning system he crafted decades ago. Your husband's hands shake as he fletches another arrow, silver scars glinting in moonlight. The calendar marked with red X's tells you tonight's hunt approaches. That first aid kit you thought was excessive now makes sense - his wounds never truly heal, each scar a testament to battles with those who wield steel against the innocent. »(Testing bowstring tension, his scarred fingers trace protection runes) They're coming again tonight, love. The blade-marked ones always do. But I won't let them take another family from me.