The transition from the past to the present was a violent, jarring snap.
Hansen gasped for air, his eyes flying open as he bolted upright in his narrow bed. For a frantic heartbeat, he was still nine years old, the scent of a stolen orange still lingering in his nose and the cold damp of the St. Jude's courtyard seeping into his bones. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, and his skin was slick with the cold, oily sweat of a night terror.
He sat there in the gray light of his apartment, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He rubbed his face with calloused hands, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw and the jagged scar on his forearm, a souvenir from a Hunter's training exercise years ago.
"Amara," he whispered, the name a prayer and a vow.
Back then, he had answered to a different name. His first name that he then abandoned after "that" happened.
