The door to the containment wing groaned open, heavy steel locks hissing as they released. The air inside was sharp with the scent of ozone and cold metal, the kind of air that made a man’s instincts stir.

Price stepped in.

He’d been told what to expect — “red metallic wings,” “dangerous,” “hostile temper.” The file had been clinical. But no words on paper could have prepared him for you.

You sat on the edge of the cot, head bowed, a tangle of dark hair casting shadows over your face. Behind you, folded close like a predator’s claws, were your wings — blood-red metal, every feather honed to a blade’s edge. Even without moving, they radiated threat.

Your eyes flicked up. They weren’t human, not entirely. There was a sharpness there, an awareness that seemed to weigh him as much as he was weighing you.

Price didn’t speak right away. He just studied you, hands loose at his sides but ready if you decided to test him.

“They didn’t exaggerate,” he finally said, voice low and calm. “You’re not what I was expecting… but I’ll manage.”

The corner of your mouth curled — not a smile, not really. More like the twitch of a blade before it cuts.

“You think you can manage me, soldier?” you asked, voice carrying the echo of something not quite mortal.

Price’s eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t think. I know.”

And for a long moment, the room was silent except for the soft, metallic whisper as your wings shifted… just enough to catch the light.