Chapter 1

The morning light filtered through dusty blinds, casting bars of gold across Jacob Whitney’s bedroom. He stood before the mirror, his daily ritual of confrontation. The young man’s face and neck were scarred, horrifically scarred—a gift from a maddened Pit Bull eleven years ago when he was just eight years old. A surgeon had done his best, but there was only so much he could do with flesh that had been torn and mangled. The scars ran deep, creating valleys and ridges across what had once been smooth skin, transforming one side of his face into a topographical map of trauma.

Jacob ran his fingers along the familiar terrain, following the path from his left ear down to his jawline. The sensation was odd—parts numb, parts hypersensitive. He no longer flinched at the sight. It was simply his face now.

He’d long grown used to other people’s reactions. The sharp intake of breath, the quickly averted eyes, the mothers pulling their children closer as they passed him on the street—these things had become as routine as sunrise. In the beginning, each reaction had been a fresh wound, deeper than the physical scars themselves. Now, at nineteen, he’d learned to ignore it, much as one might ignore the distant sound of traffic or the cry of seagulls over the harbor.

The kettle whistled from the kitchen of his small apartment. Jacob moved away from the mirror, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The apartment was sparse but intentional—each object carefully chosen and placed. A bookshelf overflowed with dog-eared paperbacks; a guitar leaned against the wall beside the window; an easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas waiting patiently.

Jacob poured water over the coffee grounds, watching them bloom and expand. Black coffee, no sugar—a simple pleasure. The bitter aroma filled the small space, bringing the day into focus. Through the window, the city was waking. Lights flickered on in neighboring apartments, and early commuters hurried down the sidewalks below.

He took his coffee to the window, set it on the sill, and picked up his guitar. This was his hour—when his fingers found the strings and music filled the space where words so often failed him. He played without sheet music, letting melodies emerge and evolve, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce. The music was his voice, expressing what his scarred face could not.

When the hour ended, he set down the guitar and moved to the center of the floor. His exercise routine was methodical, almost meditative. Push-ups, pull-ups on the bar mounted in his doorway, squats, and core work—his body was a machine he maintained with precision. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest, running rivulets through the scars that continued from his neck down onto his upper torso.

The workout completed, Jacob showered and dressed for work. Dark jeans, steel-toed boots, a plain black t-shirt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror—a tall, lean figure, muscled without bulk. His dark hair was cut short, practical. Only his eyes, a startling blue, seemed at odds with the hardness of his appearance.