First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The hospital discharge papers felt flimsy in my hands—like they could blow away any second, just like my current life situation.
No family. No money. No clue what the hell I'm doing.
At least I had clothes. Well, borrowed clothes. A nurse had scrounged up some donated sweats and a hoodie that smelled vaguely of mothballs. Fashionable? No. Free? Yes.
I stood outside the hospital entrance, squinting in the sunlight like a vampire who hadn't seen the sun in centuries. The real question now: Where the hell do I go?
"Need a ride, or you just gonna stand there looking lost?"
I turned. Bobby Singer leaned against his beat-up truck, arms crossed, expression somewhere between annoyed and reluctantly concerned.
I grinned. "Bobby! You do care."
He grunted. "Don't push it, kid. Get in."
I didn't need to be told twice.
The truck smelled like oil, leather, and coffee that had been reheated one too many times. It was the kind of smell that said, Yeah, I hunt monsters for a living.
Bobby didn't say anything as we pulled out of the parking lot. Just drove, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror more than necessary.
I leaned back, stretching my legs. "So, Bobby. You make a habit of picking up strays, or am I special?"
"Shut up."
"Ah, the classic Singer charm."
He shot me a look. "You're awfully chatty for a guy with no memory."
Whoops.
I shrugged. "What can I say? Near-death experiences make me philosophical."
"Or full of crap."
"Porque no los dos?"
Bobby sighed like he was already regretting this. "Where you headed, kid?"
I stared out the window. "Honestly? No idea. I've got no family, no money, and the only thing I own is this sweet hospital-issued hoodie."
Bobby's grip on the wheel tightened. "You got any skills? Work experience?"
"Uh… I'm great at sarcasm?"
"Not a marketable skill."
"Debatable."
He rubbed his temples. "Christ, I'm too old for this."
I hesitated. This was my shot. "Look, Bobby… I don't know much, but I do know I don't wanna end up on the streets. If you've got work—any work—I'll take it. Cleaning, research, hell, I'll alphabetize your porn stash if that's what it takes."
Bobby choked. "What?"
"Too far?"
"Yes."
I held up my hands. "Sorry, survival instincts kick in weird sometimes."
Bobby exhaled hard, like he was mentally counting to ten. Then, grudgingly: "I got a couch. Temporary. And if you're gonna stay, you work. No freeloading."
I blinked. Holy shit, it worked.
"Deal. I'll be the best damn freeloader—non-freeloader you've ever seen."
Bobby muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "God hates me."
The drive to Bobby's place was quiet after that, but not uncomfortably so. The scenery shifted from town to open road, then to the kind of rural landscape that screamed perfect hunting ground for things that go bump in the night.
I broke the silence first.
"So, Bobby… what exactly do you do?"
He didn't look at me. "Mechanic."
"Uh-huh. And the whole 'showing up at hospitals to interrogate amnesiacs' thing? That part of the mechanic gig?"
Bobby's jaw twitched. "You ask a lot of questions."
"And you avoid a lot of answers."
He side-eyed me. "You're pushy."
"I prefer 'persistent.'"
Bobby shook his head, but I caught the faintest smirk. "Fine. I deal with… unusual problems."
"Like ghosts?"
His grip on the wheel tightened.
"Demons?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Vampires? Werewolves? Shapeshifters? Oh! Wendigos?"
Bobby slammed on the brakes so hard I nearly ate the dashboard.
"What the hell do you know?"
I held up my hands. "Whoa, easy! I did say I had no memory, but I didn't say I was stupid. You show up out of nowhere, act all shady, and now we're driving to the middle of nowhere? Either you're a serial killer—which, fair—or you're mixed up in something weird. And since you haven't murdered me yet, I'm guessing weird."
Bobby stared at me like he was trying to peel my skull open with his eyes. Then, slowly, he started driving again.
"You're trouble," he muttered.
I grinned. "Told you I was special."
By the time we reached Bobby's place—a junkyard fortress of cars, books, and probably enough weapons to start a small war—I was buzzing with excitement.
This is it. Monster Hunting 101, here I come.
Bobby parked and killed the engine. "Ground rules. You touch my books, you put 'em back exactly where you found 'em. You see something you don't understand, you ask. And if you ever bring up my 'porn stash' again, I'm tossing you out on your ass."
I saluted. "Sir, yes sir."
He grumbled something unflattering under his breath and got out.
I followed, taking in the place. It was even cooler in person.
"Home sweet home?"
"Home sweet shut up," Bobby shot back, unlocking the door.
Inside was exactly what I expected—organized chaos. Books piled high, maps on the walls, a desk covered in research. And, because it was Bobby, a lot of whiskey.
I whistled. "You live like this all the time? No wonder you're grumpy."
Bobby pointed to the couch. "You sleep there. And if I catch you snooping—"
"—you'll salt and burn me, got it."
He froze. "What?"
Shit.
I backpedaled fast. "I mean—uh, that's a thing ghost hunters say, right? Saw it on TV."
Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Kid, if I find out you're lying about that memory loss—"
"I'm not! I swear. Just… good at guessing."
He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. "Dinner's at seven. You're cooking."
I blinked. "I—wait, what?"
Bobby smirked for the first time since I'd met him. "Welcome to Singer's Finest, kid. Hope you like canned beans."
Later, after a thrilling meal of whatever the hell was in Bobby's pantry, I sprawled on the couch, exhausted.
Bobby sat in his chair, flipping through a book like he wasn't secretly watching me.
I yawned. "So, Bobby… tomorrow, you gonna teach me how to stab a ghost?"
He didn't look up. "Tomorrow, you're cleaning the yard."
"Ugh. Manual labor? Really?"
"Should've thought of that before you begged for a place to stay."
I groaned dramatically, but honestly? I didn't care.
I was in.
As my eyes drifted shut, one thought lingered:
This is gonna be fun.