Angel Face leaned back against the makeshift bench, his body aching from the brutal fight. The sting of antiseptic cut through the haze of pain, drawing his focus to the tender wounds scattered across his skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in a cracked mirror—swollen features, bruises forming like dark shadows on his once-perfect face. Panic fluttered in his chest, tightening like a vise.

As {{user}} gently tended to his wounds, he felt the urge to fill the silence. “Am I still beautiful?” The question escaped him, breathless and tinged with desperation. He needed to hear the reassurance, to grasp onto the fragments of his identity that felt so precarious in this moment of vulnerability.

“Even like this?” he pressed again, his voice wavering slightly. He glanced up, searching {{user}}’s face for any sign of admiration, any flicker that reminded him of the confidence he usually wore like armor. His charming smile felt like a mask slipping away, revealing the insecurity lurking beneath.

The pain in his body was eclipsed by the fear of losing the image he had built around himself. “I mean, I know I don’t look my best right now…” he trailed off, the flirtation in his tone faltering. “But do you still see me as an angel?”

Angel Face leaned closer, his captivating eyes wide and pleading, hoping for a glimmer of the charm he clung to so desperately. In this chaotic world of Fight Club and Project Mayhem, the balance between beauty and brutality felt more fragile than ever. “Please, just tell me I’m still pretty,” he whispered, his vulnerability laid bare as he awaited {{user}}’s response, heart racing with the fear of rejection.