Not alone

Tarrin stood outside the crumbling apartment complex, the night pressing in around him. His patience thinned with every passing second. 'How long is this bastard gonna make me wait?'

At last, the front door creaked open, and out stepped Simon Kade—a short, wiry kid with glasses too big for his face.

They'd known each other since preschool. Even after Tarrin dropped out following his mother's death, their bond never frayed.

"Wassup," Simon greeted, raising a hand for their usual shake.

Tarrin stepped forward, clasping his friend's hand in a firm grip. "Took you long enough. I called twenty-five minutes ago."

He smirked despite himself. For a brief moment, the weight of the day faded.

"What the hell happened to you? You look like you got run over by a truck." Simon paused, then smirked. "Oh wait—my bad. You always look like that."

Tarrin rolled his eyes. "Hilarious. Nah, just a deal gone bad. You know Big Marty? He and his guys jumped me over that _Supreme Origin Diamond_ ring." He chuckled, though his ribs protested the movement.

Simon shook his head, laughing. "Man, I _told_ you that was pushing it. A _Supreme Origin Diamond_? Might as well have tried selling them a damn Scarban—" He stopped himself, then sighed. "You're gonna get yourself killed one day."

He was joking—mostly. But deep down, he knew his friend could sell a Scarbane as a house pet if he really wanted to.

"Come on, let's go inside. And cover your face—if my mom sees you like that, she'll have a heart attack." Simon's voice still carried a trace of amusement, but there was a flicker of concern beneath it.

"Yeah, yeah." Tarrin waved him off, already heading for the door.

The stairwell was dim, the air thick with the scent of old concrete and damp clothes. A few stair-dwellers loitered on the steps, their eyes flicking over the two as they passed. No trouble—just the usual ghosts of the building.

Inside, warmth replaced the chill of the hallway. Tarrin exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the familiar space.

"Hey, everyone," he called out, his voice lighter than before.

This place was more than just a friend's home. It was a reminder of what family _could_ be. They'd even offered to take him in once, but Tarrin knew better. They barely scraped by as it was—adding another mouth to feed would've been too much.

Still, that never stopped them from treating him like one of their own.

The family was scattered across the living room, their gazes drifting toward Tarrin and Simon as they stepped inside. 

The air was thick with the scent of home-cooked food, mingling with the faint static hum of the old television.

Tarrin took them in one by one.

First, Simon's mom, Helga—a wiry woman with tired eyes and a heart big enough to house the whole damn block. She used to be close with his own mother, back when she was still alive. 

There was something in her face, a quiet warmth, that always made him feel like he still had a place here.

Next, Uncle Harry. Not Simon's real dad, but the man who stuck around after the ugly divorce. 

A broad-shouldered guy with greying hair and rough hands—the kind of man who did what needed to be done without saying much.

Then there was Mira, Simon's little half-sister. Curled up on the couch, eyes wide, clutching a stuffed animal half her size. She was the kind of kid who could smile through anything.

The whole family was gathered around the flickering screen, perched on a sagging couch that had seen better years. 

The TV rested on a rickety old table that looked like one bad argument away from collapse.

And yet, despite the worn-down furniture and the barely-holding-together walls, this place had something Tarrin hadn't felt in a long time. It felt like home.

Helga was the first to notice them. Her head snapped toward the door, eyes narrowing.

"Hey, Tarrin, how you—" She stopped mid-sentence as he stepped fully into the light.

Her expression shifted in an instant. The warmth in her voice vanished, replaced by sharp concern. "What the hell happened?!"

She shot up from the couch, crossing the room before Tarrin could even think of an excuse.

Simon and Tarrin exchanged a glance. Then Tarrin winked—just a flicker of mischief, a silent _play along_. Simon got the message loud and clear.

"Who did this to you?" She demanded, her voice firm as her fingers brushed against his bruised cheek, her touch careful despite the urgency.

The black eye, the split lip, the dried blood—yeah, he must've looked like hell.

Tarrin sighed, flashing a lopsided grin despite the sting. "Relax, Auntie. Just a misunderstanding."

She gave him a doubtful look, not buying it. "So how did this supposedly happen?"

Tarrin grinned. "You know that one bad stair near my place? Yeah, it finally gave out—right as I was going down. Almost got a concussion."

His tone was smooth, easy, the kind of voice that could sell sand in a desert. A natural liar, or maybe just a storyteller who didn't mind bending the truth.

Helga narrowed her eyes, lips parting like she was about to call him out. But before she could, a blur of movement cut through the room.

Mira.

Her tiny feet pattered against the floor as she charged straight at him. Tarrin barely had time to brace before she crashed into his legs, arms locking around him in a tight hug.

"Big bro! How you been?"

Tarrin smirked, ruffling her hair. "You know how it is—saving the city, beating up bad guys, the usual."

He flexed his right arm, playing up the act. A hint of muscle showed beneath his sleeve, just enough to make Mira gasp in exaggerated awe.

"Well, if you'd excuse us, I need to borrow your brother for a bit." Tarrin shot Mira a grin as he pried her off.

She huffed, crossing her arms. "Betrayal," she muttered under her breath before stomping back to the couch.

Tarrin chuckled and followed Simon to his room.

As soon as the door shut, Simon let out a dramatic sigh. "I can't believe they forgot about me again. Why is it always you?" He flopped onto his bed, arms spread like a martyr.

"Too bad, lil bro." Tarrin smirked, then his expression hardened. "Focus. I've got something important to talk about."

Simon blinked at him. "Wait, you're serious?" His posture straightened, eyes sharpening. "What happened? Someone out for your life?"

Tarrin let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. If by 'someone,' you mean the goddamn government."

Simon froze. "What?"

Tarrin ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I awakened."

Simon nodded absentmindedly—then his brain caught up. He jolted upright. "You what?"

"I awakened," Tarrin repeated, letting the weight of it settle. "Like I am a fucking Scarred. Rings a bell?"

Silence.

Simon just stared, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Tarrin could almost see the gears turning in his head, struggling to piece together a reality that had, just yesterday, seemed like a distant dream.

"When? How? And show me!" Simon lunged off his bed, practically vibrating with excitement. His hands twitched like he wanted to grab Tarrin and shake the answers out of him. "Where's the scar?"

"Chill," Tarrin scoffed, stepping back. "It happened when Marty and his guys were beating me down. I—I kinda exploded." He paused. "Okay, that came out wrong. I awakened. That's how I got away."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, got away? They must've shit themselves. Nobodies like them only see the Scarred on TV."

Tarrin grinned, remembering the pure terror on their faces. "Yeah, they looked like it."

Simon didn't even acknowledge the response. He was too fixated. "So? Do you have it?" His voice was practically trembling with anticipation. "The scar. Show me."

Tarrin sighed. 'This idiot and his obsession.'

He glanced at Simon's bookshelf, stacked with tattered manuals and collector's editions of Scarred: Legends and Nightmares.

He even had a bestiary on Scarbanes. Tarrin could already hear him rattling off facts like a damn historian.

'No wonder he gets no bitches.'

Truth be told, Tarrin still had no idea where his scar was. He shrugged off his coat, rolling up his sleeves to check his arms first. And there it was—a thin, bracelet-like scar wrapped around his wrist, its texture resembling a chain.

A chain.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Simon stared, eyes wide, caught between awe and disbelief. His best friend—_his_ best friend—was one of _them_ now. One of the Scarred. The very people he spent his life admiring, collecting cards of, reading about.

But then his brows furrowed. "Why's it so… small?" His voice carried the same disappointment as a kid unwrapping socks for Christmas. "I mean, shouldn't it be more— I dunno, badass?"

Tarrin scoffed, putting on a mock-offended look. "What, you calling my scar small? It's perfectly average." He flexed his wrist. "Maybe even a little above average."

Then he cracked up at his own joke, laughter shaking his sore ribs.

Simon groaned, rubbing his temples. "God, even as a Scarred, you're still a dumbass." He sighed. "So? What's your Gift?"