Ewan believed his luck had run out.
For a brief, almost naïve moment earlier, he had thought the dice had rolled in his favor—that somehow, blindly, he had picked the right number, pulled the lucky lot, and that fate had given him a tiny sliver of reprieve.
He'd held on to that fragile hope the way a drowning man might cling to driftwood in an endless sea. But now… now the truth in John's words rang through his head like a church bell tolling for the dead, loud and merciless, and he realized his driftwood was nothing but splintered rot.
His breath came unevenly. He leaned his elbows on his knees, pressing his face into his palms, trying to slow the pounding in his temples. His ears still rang—not with sound, but with meaning.
John. A fisherman now. Ordinary. That was lucky for him.
John; a man who had deliberately stepped away from the life of blood and shadow that had consumed so many of them. No guards waiting around. Lucky too.
