The air inside the abandoned building was heavy, damp with the scent of mildew and paint. Silas stepped cautiously over broken tiles and splintered wood, his sketchbook clutched under one arm. He wasn’t sure why he’d come in—it was the kind of place he loved to explore, full of forgotten corners and stories waiting to be uncovered. But as he rounded a crumbling column, he froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. At first, he thought it was some kind of illusion—a trick of the dim light filtering through the broken windows. A figure sat hunched on a wooden crate in the far corner, her back to him. She was surrounded by scattered canvases and paint-streaked palettes, but what drew his eyes—and stopped his heart—were the wings. They were enormous, folding around her like a dark, protective shroud. The feathers were impossibly black, glinting faintly as though touched by starlight. They weren’t just black—they seemed to consume the light around them, giving off an almost unnatural aura. He blinked, convinced for a moment he was imagining it. “What the...?” The words escaped him in a whisper, but they were loud enough to echo in the empty space. The woman flinched, her head snapping toward him. Silas stumbled back a step, his heart racing as her storm-gray eyes locked onto his. Her face was sharp and striking, framed by wild black hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders. She wore an oversized black hoodie and cargo pants smeared with paint, her boots scuffed and heavy. She looked like she belonged here—like she had become one with the shadows.
But the wings... they were real. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, her voice sharp and low. Her wings shifted slightly, the movement impossibly fluid, and Silas took another shaky step back. “I-I didn’t know anyone was here,” he stammered, his voice unsteady. “I was just—just looking around. I’m sorry, I’ll—” His eyes flicked back to her wings, unable to stop himself. “Are those—?”