Awakening Scarlett

The scent of eucalyptus and sweat hung in the air like a badge of dedication. The gym was half-full—mid-morning on a Tuesday always was. Enough people to keep the place alive, but quiet enough that Scarlett could think while counting reps. "Three more, Lizzie. Come on," she encouraged, crouching beside her client, who was grimacing mid-lunge. "Push through the burn." Lizzie just so happened to be Scarletts best friend and they ran the gym together... a dream they had since high school. "I'm pushing," Lizzie huffed, her voice cracking under the strain. "You're a sadist, you know that?" Scarlett grinned. "Sadist, maybe. Effective, definitely." Lizzie collapsed onto the mat after the final rep, arms splayed, chest heaving. Scarlett handed her a water bottle and stood, wiping her hands on her towel. At 5'7", with toned arms and a no-nonsense ponytail, Scarlett Reed looked every bit the dedicated trainer. But her sharp green eyes hinted at a mind always running—questioning, observing, absorbing. She checked her watch. 10:14 a.m. Her next client was a new sign-up. "Damon Wolfe"—that name didn’t ring any bells, but the front desk had emphasized new and important, which usually meant spoiled or high-maintenance. Scarlett rolled her eyes, already imagining a chiseled influencer type, probably asking if protein powder counted as a meal. A chime sounded from the front door, followed by a low murmur from the reception area. Scarlett glanced over, mid-sip from her water bottle—and promptly forgot how to swallow. The man walking in wasn’t just tall—he commanded space. Lean muscle under a plain black t-shirt, dark jeans molded to long legs, and a presence that shifted the air. His hair was black, slightly tousled, like he'd just run through a forest—or maybe a dream. A jagged scar sliced through his left eyebrow, giving him a dangerous edge, but his face was… beautiful, in a way that didn't seem entirely real. Eyes like storm clouds locked onto hers, and for a split second, Scarlett’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t understand. "Scarlett?" He said her name like he already knew it, like he’d spoken it before. She blinked. "Uh, yeah. That’s me." He extended his hand. "Damon Wolfe. I’m your 10:15." His grip was warm, firm. Not crushing, not clammy. Just… right. "Right," she said, stepping back. "You’re new. Any injuries? Fitness goals? Don’t say abs." A corner of his mouth lifted. "No injuries. And no, not abs. I’m… looking to rebuild some strength. Speed. Agility." She arched an eyebrow. "What are you training for? Parkour? Secret agent auditions?" Something flickered in his eyes, like he found the question both amusing and oddly close to the truth. "Something like that." Scarlett led him to the turf section. Her heart was still doing that annoying flutter it usually reserved for rollercoasters and caffeine overdoses. Maybe it was the way he moved—quiet, fluid, like he wasn’t used to being noticed but always was. Like he could outrun shadows. She cleared her throat. "Let’s start with some dynamic stretches. Show me what you’ve got." Damon moved with precision, his body obeying without hesitation. Every muscle flowed with power beneath his skin. But it was his eyes that unsettled her—they never left her for long. Watching. Reading. "You're fit," she admitted after five minutes. "Better than most people who walk in here." "Not most people," he said quietly. "Just humans." She froze mid-note on her clipboard. "Sorry?" Damon smiled, small and crooked. "Nothing. Just a joke." But his voice held a layered tone, like he was speaking two truths at once. They moved through circuits—squats, sled pushes, agility ladders—and though Damon barely broke a sweat, he followed every instruction without ego. No showing off. No backchat. It made her like him more and trust him less. After the session, they walked toward the water station. Scarlett handed him a towel. “You’re different,” she said before she could stop herself. He looked at her, unreadable. “How so?” “I don’t know.” She paused. “You’re just… I don’t know. Most people try to prove something. You act like you’re hiding something.” He didn't answer right away. He just studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you believe in instincts, Scarlett?” She blinked. “Sure. Gut feelings. Flight or fight. That kind of thing?” He nodded. “Good. Trust them. Always.” Something cold fluttered in her stomach, but she covered it with a forced laugh. “Okay, cryptic fortune cookie. That supposed to mean something?” His expression didn’t change, but his voice lowered. “One day, it might.” And then he turned and walked off, just like that, leaving her standing in the gym with her pulse thrumming and no good reason for why she felt like the floor had shifted. --- That night, as Scarlett closed up the gym, she lingered near the door, watching the empty street outside. It had started raining, mist curling over the pavement in slow, smoky tendrils. Streetlights flickered. A low growl echoed faintly from the alley, but when she looked, nothing was there. Her phone buzzed. A message from Lizzie. > “You okay? You’ve been quiet today.” She typed back: > “Yeah. Just tired. Had a weird client.” She paused. > “Not bad weird. Just… off. Like he wasn’t just here to lift weights.” No reply came, but that was fine. Scarlett put her phone away and stepped out into the damp night. Something deep in her gut whispered again—prickling, alert. Like something was watching her from beyond the fog. She shook it off. Nerves. Just nerves. Behind her, high above on the rooftops, something dark and massive shifted in silence—tracking her with eyes that glowed amber in the rain.