Jason Isaacs

The sun had just started to set, painting the neighborhood in soft amber hues as you stepped out of your car. A new house. A better one. Boxes filled with your entire life waited in the trunk, and your feet crunched softly against the gravel as you took it all in — the quiet street, the ivy-draped brick walls, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of something old and familiar. Unseen behind a curtain in the townhouse next door, Jason Isaacs watched you arrive. He stood silently, leaning against the windowframe with a glass in one hand, half-shadowed by the dim light behind him. His expression unreadable. Studying. Not staring, exactly — but close. You didn’t notice at first. Not until, moments later, as you struggled with one of the heavier boxes, you heard footsteps behind you. Calm. Unhurried. You turned, and there he was. Tall, composed, dressed in black, with a look that was neither a smile nor a frown. Just… interest.