CAINE
Something about these children sets my senses on edge.
I watch the kid closely as he speaks about the small sleeping forms in the alcove. His body language shifts constantly—defensive, protective, cautious. But it's not his movements that catch my attention. It's his scent.
A strange undertone clings to him. Sweet. Fruity. Similar to overripe strawberries, but not quite the same. It's subtle beneath his normal teenage smell—sweat, hormones, and a hint of animal musk.
At first whiff, he smells like a wolf.
I take a deeper breath, letting my senses expand through the cave. The little one, Bun—she smells like prey at her baseline. Rabbit.
But different as they are, they all share the same signature of scent. Strangely, almost synthetically fruity.
Owen doesn't carry it at all; he smells of summer and wind and something cleaner. Not human, though. Something else is there, but it's not like theirs.
