The market is alive in the way only places of vice and barter can be. It stinks of desperation, opportunity, and sweat, all wrapped in the perfume of roasted meats and spilled spice. The bodies around me shift, brushing past one another in a constant tide of movement—buyers, sellers, pickpockets, and predators alike.

I’ve learned to move with them, to let the flow carry me while keeping my own direction. You survive longer that way.

And then I feel him.

He stands too still in a place where no one is still. That alone is enough to mark him. But it’s more than that. He’s watching. Tracking. Not just glancing at wares or picking a target to steal from—he’s observing patterns. Watching the way people move, the space they leave between one another, the moments they hesitate before making a deal.

I don’t like it.

I slow my steps just slightly, feigning interest in a crate of dried fruits while I take him in. Human, Core-born, maybe Mid Rim at the furthest. Pale skin, clean-shaven, and dressed too finely for a place like this. He’s careful about it—his jacket isn’t flashy, but the material is too smooth, too tailored. Someone who knows how to blend but still doesn’t quite belong.

His boots are polished. That tells me more than anything else. A man with no dust on his boots hasn’t been walking through streets like these for long.

And then there’s his stance.

It’s subtle, but I know it because I’ve lived it. His hands rest at his sides, but his fingers are just slightly curled, his weight balanced over the balls of his feet. It’s a stance of control, of expectation. A man waiting for something to happen and ready to react when it does.

I start moving again, shifting through the market’s crowd in a lazy arc toward him.

His eyes flicker to my lekku first, as most do, but they don’t linger. That’s rare. Most humans let their attention get caught there. Instead, his gaze tracks the scars on my forearms, the ink winding across my skin. He notices details. I file that away.

When I step closer, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react with hostility or invitation. He just watches. Calculating.

That makes two of us.

I let the silence stretch between us, long enough that most men would try to fill it. He doesn’t. Another mark in his favor. I’m the one who breaks it first, because I want to see what he does when prompted.

"Enjoying the market?"

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "More than I expected."

A smooth answer. A cautious one.

I don’t trust him.

But I want to know why he’s here.

---------

Jovian Grey moves differently than the others.

Most of the people in the market are either searching for something or avoiding something. He does neither. He lets the current of the crowd carry him, but there is an undeniable control to his movements. He gives the illusion of being relaxed, blending in with the shifting masses, but he’s watching everything. Calculating.

That’s what the reports failed to capture.

The files painted him as a former captive, a runaway who carved his own escape. The scars on his skin tell that story, but his posture tells another. This is not a man who fled. This is a man who was forged.

He’s lean but strong, with a dancer’s balance—fluid, but deliberate. He does not waste motion. His lekku shift as he moves, but it is controlled. Even the way they sway is calculated, almost like a lure, something meant to misdirect.

And then there are his eyes.

Red, sharp, and watching.

The way he looks at me reminds me of how a predator watches something that it isn’t sure is prey yet. That look, more than anything, is what confirms my suspicions.

He’s assessing me the same way I am assessing him.

I deliberately remain still, giving him time to make his approach first. He doesn’t disappoint. He circles in a casual arc, never moving directly toward me but always drifting closer. A lesser man would mistake it for curiosity, but I know better.

He’s testing.

The moment he closes the distance, I notice his scent—subtle, muted. Not the sweat and desperation of the market, but something clean beneath the layers of dust and smoke. A sign of someone who maintains control over his environment, no matter how chaotic.

Then, the final test.

He speaks first. "Enjoying the market?"

His voice is smooth, measured. No wasted breath, no inflection to suggest he cares about the answer.

I give him the barest twitch of my lips. "More than I expected."

That’s when I know.

The files were right about one thing—Jovian Grey is dangerous.

But not in the way they think.

He is not a survivor.

He is an adaptation.