CHAPTER ONE
" who are you? "

ᯓ★

baltimore, MD ━━ january 2014

THE girl was running for her life.

Simply known as Rowan to everyone and to herself, her sneakers pounded against the cracked pavement, her breath coming in steady bursts as she darted through the narrow streets of south Baltimore. The late afternoon sun filtered through the grimy windows of abandoned buildings, casting long shadows that stretched across her path. Her school backpack jostled against her spine, its weight a reminder of the normal life she was supposed to be living. But normal wasn't a word that ever fit Rowan.

Behind her, a chorus of shouts and heavy footsteps echoed off the brick walls. She glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of the usual culprits: a group of seniors from her high school. Their faces were red with exertion and fury, their jeers carrying on the wind.

"You think you're funny, huh?" one of them yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "You're dead, Rowan!"

Rowan smirked to herself. Maybe I shouldn't have said that thing about their egos being bigger than their dicks, she thought, weaving between a lamppost and a parked car. But they had it coming. Always throwing their weight around, always picking on the weaker kids. Rowan wasn't about to let them get away with it—even if it meant putting a target on her back.

Her legs burned as she pushed herself harder, navigating the labyrinth of alleys she knew like the back of her hand. This part of Baltimore wasn't much to look at, but it was home. She'd spent years exploring every shortcut, every dead end. If she could just reach the corner store by the main street, she'd lose them in the crowd.

But her plan faltered as two of the seniors broke off and sprinted down a parallel alley. Cutting me off? Smart, she thought, her smirk fading. She skidded to a halt at a crossroads, the path ahead blocked by the other two boys in the group. Before she could turn back, the ones who'd flanked her emerged from the side alley, boxing her in.

Rowan's pulse quickened, but not with fear. Her eyes darted between them, her mind already calculating her next move.

"Cornered like a rat," one of them sneered, stepping closer. His name was Tyler, she remembered, the self-appointed leader of their pack. He had a black eye—probably her fault from their last encounter.

"Didn't know rats could run this fast," Rowan shot back, tilting her head. "What's the matter? Had to gang up on me to feel tough?"

The boys exchanged glances, their bravado wavering for a moment. But Tyler recovered quickly, grabbing Rowan by the arm and yanking her toward him.

"Big mouth for someone so small," he said, his grip tightening. Without warning, he drove his knee into her stomach.

Rowan doubled over, letting out a pained grunt that turned into a low chuckle. When she straightened, her lips curled into a grin. "That's all you got?" she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "Honestly, I've had worse from gym class."

Tyler's eyes narrowed, and the others shifted uneasily.

"You think this is funny?" another boy spat.

"A little," Rowan admitted, shrugging off Tyler's grip. She stepped back, putting just enough distance between herself and the group to reassess her options.

The tension shifted when one of the boys—Mark, if she remembered right—pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade gleamed in the fading sunlight, and Rowan's grin faltered.

"You don't have to get so serious," she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "What happened to good old-fashioned bullying? You know, shoving people into lockers, stealing lunch money? This feels like... too much."

Mark advanced, the knife steady in his hand. Rowan's mind raced. She couldn't outrun them in this alley, not with walls closing in on both sides. Fighting wasn't ideal either, but she'd been in enough scraps to know she could hold her own. And if it came down to it, she had a distinct advantage: her body didn't bruise like theirs, didn't feel pain the way it should.

She shifted her weight, calculating the angles. If she feinted to the right, she could take out Tyler first. He was the biggest threat—take him down, and the others might scatter. Her muscles coiled, ready to spring.

"Come on," she taunted, her voice light but her eyes sharp. "Let's see if you've got the guts to use that thing."

Before Mark could take another step, the door to the nearby variety store slammed open with a resounding thud.

"What the hell is going on here?" bellowed Lou, the store owner. He stepped out into the alley, his burly frame and thick arms making the boys falter.

"We were just..." Tyler started, his bravado evaporating under Lou's glare.

"Get out of here before I call the cops," Lou snapped, jabbing a thick finger in their direction. "Now."

The boys hesitated for a moment before muttering curses under their breath. "Trash," one of them spat at Rowan as they retreated. "No wonder nobody wants you."

Rowan rolled her eyes, ignoring their parting insults. It wasn't anything she hadn't heard before.

Lou crossed his arms, giving her a pointed look. "You really need to stop getting into trouble, kid."

Rowan shrugged. "I could've handled it myself."

Lou let out a gruff laugh. "Sure you could've. But it wouldn't hurt to avoid these situations altogether, you know?"

Rowan didn't answer, her gaze drifting to the cracked pavement. Lou sighed and gestured for her to follow him into the store. Once inside, he busied himself behind the counter for a moment before looking up at her.

"You know, kid, you've got a knack for finding trouble," he said, shaking his head. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Rowan replied, leaning against the counter. "They didn't even land a good hit."

Lou chuckled. "Doesn't mean you should go looking for it. You're too young to have enemies like that."

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't start it."

"But you sure didn't let it go, did you?" Lou said, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Rowan smirked but stayed silent. After a pause, Lou grabbed a small bouquet of wilted flowers from a shelf behind him and handed them to her.

"Here. Give these to the lady," he said.

Rowan arched an eyebrow. "Marlene's not impressed by dead flowers, Lou."

"Yeah, well, it's the thought that counts," he replied, shooing her toward the door. "Now get home before someone else decides to pick a fight."

The town house Rowan called home was cramped and aging, its once-bright paint peeling under years of neglect. The Baltimore winter chill clung to every corner, made worse by the faltering heater. It felt like the place had been built back when Steve Rogers was still in short pants, and it hadn't seen much upkeep since.

Rowan climbed the rickety steps, stepping into the chaos of the house. Five foster kids, including herself, shared the tight quarters. Two bedrooms were crammed full, each holding creaky bunk beds and a scattering of personal belongings jammed into any available space. The walls were thin, and every sound carried—arguments, laughter, even the occasional midnight sob.

Marlene Gail, the matron, did her best. She was kind enough, but she was constantly busy, running between errands and responsibilities, often leaving the kids to fend for themselves. She only intervened when absolutely necessary— like when Rowan inevitably caused trouble.

To Rowan's surprise, Marlene was sitting in the worn-out armchair in the living room when she stepped inside. A rare sight.

"How was your day?" Marlene asked, setting aside a stack of paperwork. Her tone was casual, but there was a familiar edge to her expression.

"Fine," Rowan said vaguely, dropping her backpack by the door.

"Didn't get up to anything special at school?" she asked. "Or afterwards?"

"Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Marlene raised an eyebrow. "Lou texted me."

Rowan groaned, muttering, "Snitch."

"Want to tell me what happened this time?" Marlene pressed, folding her arms.

"Not really," Rowan said, avoiding her gaze. She pulled the wilted bouquet from her bag and tossed it onto the coffee table. "These are from His Truly."

Marlene blinked, glancing at the flowers. "They look like they're from him" she said, making a face.

Rowan shrugged and headed toward her room. "I've gotta get working."

"Rowan—" Marlene started, but she had already disappeared down the hallway, leaving her to stare at the tired flowers.

Rowan's room was a patchwork of chaos and solace, a reflection of both her eclectic tastes and her restless mind. She shared the space with two of the older kids from the foster home: one her age and another about thirteen. The room, cramped and perpetually cluttered, bore the marks of its young inhabitants. Across from Rowan's twin-sized bed, the thirteen-year-old's bunk was piled high with textbooks, papers, and stray socks. The other bed, wedged awkwardly near the window, belonged to the girl her age, perpetually strewn with discarded clothes and makeup palettes.

The youngest two kids occupied the other room, a similarly crammed space that echoed with their laughter and bickering. Each foster kid had their quirks, their own way of carving out identity in the chaos of a shared home. But they all shared one thing in common: they had a story, a past, a history that tethered them to a place or a family, however fragmented. Rowan had none of that.

She'd been in Baltimore for as long as she could remember, a part of its patchwork streets and worn brick buildings, but she had no roots. No records of her birth, no memory of her parents, no family name to tie her to anything or anyone. She'd simply been delivered to the shelter as a toddler and eventually taken in by Marlene Gail. Even her first name felt like an afterthought, presumed to be given to her by the shelter staff.

Nothing about her origin made sense, least of all her abilities. Rowan had no explanation for why she could sprint faster than anyone her age, why her strength sometimes bordered on superhuman, or why her body healed from injuries with impossible speed. She never seemed to tire, no matter how much she pushed herself. And then there was the scar—a deep, jagged line carved into the palm of her hand. It had been there for as long as she could remember, growing with her, a permanent and unspoken mystery.

When Rowan entered the room that evening, one of her roommates was already there. The thirteen-year-old, Evan, was hunched over his small bunk, a math worksheet spread out before him. His pencil scratched furiously against the paper, his lips moving silently as he worked through equations.

"Hey," Rowan said casually, dropping her bag near her bed.

Evan glanced up briefly, nodded, then returned to his homework. Rowan didn't mind the lack of conversation. She'd grown used to the quiet rhythm of their cohabitation—the unspoken agreement to coexist without too many questions.

Her bed was her sanctuary, a twin-sized relic pushed against the far wall. The quilt was patched and faded, a mix of blues and greys that had seen better days, but it was hers. The wall above it was plastered with posters and clippings she'd collected over the years: musicians, movie covers, and old Polaroids she'd scavenged from thrift stores. Her most prized possessions were scattered across the small nightstand and shelves she'd claimed.

Rowan's love for music was evident in the battered stereo system perched on the shelf and the stacks of CDs arranged haphazardly beneath it. Her collection spanned decades and genres, from 2Pac and TLC to Fleetwood Mac and Ricky Nelson. Music was her escape, the one thing that made sense when the rest of the world didn't.

Other trinkets dotted her space: a worn-out Game Boy with a cracked screen, a few dog-eared books she'd either been given or stolen over the years, and a small jar filled with mismatched buttons and coins. Rowan had always loved collecting things—items that felt forgotten, overlooked. Little lost things in time, just like herself.

She flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling as the faint sound of Evan's pencil continued. Her room, chaotic as it was, was the only place where she could truly let her guard down. Here, she could just be Rowan—the closest version she could get to herself.

⭑

After a long time spent staring at the ceiling before getting started on her homework, Rowan's pencil stopped mid-scratch as the faint clatter of utensils and voices filtered through the thin walls. Her stomach growled in response, and with a sigh, she tossed her notebook aside and swung her legs off the bed.

Food time. Finally.

As she wandered into the cramped kitchen, the sight wasn't exactly welcoming, but it was familiar. Grace was at the counter, her hands moving deftly as she spread butter over slices of bread, the skillet already hissing with one grilling sandwich. The youngest girl, Maria, sat at the battered kitchen table, focused on painting what looked like a dinosaur made from crumpled newspaper and glue. The boy next to her, Adrian, bounced in his chair, talking a mile a minute about something she couldn't quite catch.

Rowan leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "Save enough for me?"

Grace barely turned her head, her expression as cool as the fridge door she nudged closed with her elbow. "Depends. Not sure if you're sticking around long enough to eat."

The jab was clear. Rowan snorted, shoving her hands into her pockets. "I'm starving, so I'll take my chances."

Grace's lips twitched into something that could've been a smirk but was more likely disdain. She didn't say anything else, just returned to her work. Rowan could feel the tension in the air, faint but persistent, like the hum of an old lightbulb. They never outright fought— Grace wasn't the type— but her thinly veiled superiority grated all the same.

"Look, Rowan!" Maria's voice cut through the silence, holding up her project with both hands. "It's almost done!"

Rowan grinned and crouched next to her. The papier-mâché dinosaur was unevenly painted, streaks of blue and green fighting for dominance. "Not bad, kid. Looks like you're on the way to outdoing Picasso." She ruffled the girl's hair, earning a giggle.

Adrian tugged at her sleeve, practically bouncing out of his seat. "When are we gonna get a real dinosaur? Like the robot ones on TV?"

Rowan leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm working on it, bud. Just need a little more time to get that time machine working."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Totally." She straightened up, shooting him a wink. "But you gotta promise to keep it quiet. Top secret."

Adrian mimed zipping his lips, his excitement bubbling over. Grace, however, let out a sharp sigh as she flipped another sandwich. "You really shouldn't get their hopes up with that stuff."

Rowan shrugged, sliding into one of the chairs. "Relax, Grace. It's called imagination. You should try it sometime."

Grace didn't reply, but the faint tension in her shoulders was enough of an answer. She set down a plate of sandwiches on the table with practiced efficiency, her movements precise and controlled. Rowan watched her for a moment, amused despite herself. Grace's perfectionism was something to behold, even if it came with a side of condescension.

Rowan grabbed a sandwich and started passing out juice boxes from the fridge. The kids chattered happily, their laughter filling the small space. It was moments like this that reminded her of their spark—their innocent excitement for life. The younger ones still had that hope, that drive to find a family, a place to belong.

She caught Grace's eye across the table, her expression unreadable as always. But Rowan wasn't about to let her mood get spoiled. For now, there was food, warmth, and the sound of kids being kids. She could deal with the rest later.

Later that night, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards or the faint hum of passing cars outside. Rowan lay on her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling that seemed to spiderweb more every time she looked. Sleep wouldn't come, not that she expected it to. It never did on nights like these when her mind was too restless, buzzing with thoughts she couldn't seem to silence.

With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, slipping on her sneakers and grabbing her MP3 player from the small shelf by her bed. Her movements were deliberate but not cautious; Marlene had stopped trying to enforce curfews or stop her late-night outings long ago. Rowan knew she heard the door open and shut every time, but she'd never once come after her.

The cold January air bit at her cheeks as she stepped outside, but Rowan barely noticed. The chill was nothing compared to the storm of emotions swirling inside her. She made her way down the street, the familiar rhythm of her sneakers against the pavement grounding her as she headed to one of the neighbouring buildings. It was old and abandoned, its roof easily accessible through a broken fire escape she'd climbed a hundred times before.

Reaching the top, Rowan perched on the edge of the roof, her knees pulled to her chest as she plugged her earbuds in. She scrolled through the playlist she'd built over the years and hit play. The opening chords of Talking In Your Sleep filled her ears, its lyrics echoing her own feelings of longing and frustration. She leaned back, letting the music wash over her, her breath visible in the cool air.

From her vantage point, she could see the city sprawled out before her, its lights twinkling like scattered stars. But despite the beauty of the view, her thoughts turned inward. The same questions churned in her mind, the ones that had haunted her for as long as she could remember.

Why am I like this? What does it mean?

Her gaze dropped to her hands, one of them curling into a fist as her thumb brushed over the jagged scar that slashed across her palm. It had been there as long as she could remember, an enigma as much a part of her as her strange abilities. She flexed her fingers, the movement instinctual, as if trying to squeeze answers out of the mark.

"I'll figure it out," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the music. "Someday."

The thought of leaving this life, this city, behind gave her a fleeting sense of hope. Maybe there was something out there waiting for her— answers, purpose, something to make sense of the chaos.

But as she sat there, the oddest sensation prickled at the back of her neck. It wasn't the cold, but something deeper, something instinctual. She straightened, pulling her earbuds out and scanning her surroundings. The neighbourhood was quiet, the only movement coming from a stray cat slinking through the shadows below.

Yet the feeling didn't leave her. It was as though she was being watched, closely and deliberately.

Her hand unconsciously went to her scar again, her fingers brushing against it as her eyes darted around the dimly lit streets. The shadows seemed longer, darker than usual, but there was nothing—no figure, no sound, nothing to justify the unease twisting in her stomach.

You're imagining things, she told herself, shaking her head. But even as she climbed back down the fire escape and made her way home, the feeling lingered. She pulled her hood over her head, clutching the fabric of her hoodie tighter. Not because she was cold, but because it gave her something to hold onto.

By the time she reached the group home, her jaw was set, her resolve hardening. She didn't know what it was about that scar, about her abilities, but she'd find out. She had to.

The sensation of being watched still clung to her as she slipped back into the house and shut the door behind her. Rowan paused in the hallway, listening for any sign of Marlene stirring, but the house remained still.

As she climbed into bed, her fists clenched, determination replacing the lingering unease. Whatever was out there—whether it was her past, her future, or something else entirely—Rowan knew one thing for sure: she wasn't going to stop until she figured it out.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the quiet neighbourhood, something or someone lingered, unnoticed but present. Watching.

here we go!!!

just a short lil chapter to get you introduced to present day rowan and all her misbehaving and secrecy. she's been so fun to write so far, i genuinely adore her.

the action and plot picks up pretty quickly within this first act, so we're going to be in for it quickly. hopefully it's well paced enough but we'll see i guess 🙂‍↔️

thanks for dropping by! pls leave any thoughts or early theories, i love hearing from my readers :)