They had survived the unthinkable together.
He had been just a boy when he was trafficked alongside Luna. She had saved him.
And when she was adopted by Leonard, she insisted on taking Hunter with her. Others had been reclaimed by their families or taken in by kind strangers—but Hunter had no one.
Because of the vitiligo that scarred his face, his parents had cast him aside.
To them, he was not a son but a burden—something to be hidden, erased.
His skin bore the cruel contrast of fate: half light, half dark, as if dawn and dusk had collided upon his flesh.
He remembered the night they left him. He had been five years old, clutching a ragged toy car in his tiny hand.
His mother wouldn't look at him; her face twisted whenever her eyes flicked to the pale patches creeping across his cheek.
His father said nothing, only dragged him down a dirt road, past the edge of the village, to where strangers waited.
