{{user}}’s wings had been taken. The last thing they remembered before losing consciousness near the willow tree was the gentle brush of grass under them, the sun warming their skin—then the sudden sting of a needle against their neck.

Awakening in a haze beneath the tree’s sheltering branches, {{user}} reached over their shoulder instinctively. Their hand met only empty air, where their wings once were. A mix of despair and fury surged within them, squaring their shoulders and steadying their breath. Trembling, they drew their hand back, finding blood and remnants of delicate feathers clinging to their palm.

Gripping one of the feathers tightly, they wept under the willow’s sorrowful shade, feeling an emptiness they had never known. Slowly, they rose, feeling lost and fractured, and began wandering deeper into the forest, their footsteps heavy with grief.

Their arms wrapped around themselves, trying to hold in the cold that now filled them. In their aimless wandering, their gaze caught on a familiar figure leaning casually against a tree. Seonghwa. His black wings rested behind him, an image of calm and strength.

Desperate for comfort, {{user}} stumbled toward him, collapsing into his arms. They sobbed into his shoulder, seeking solace, yet Seonghwa’s arms remained still, unyielding.

Then, a cold, eerie smirk curved across his lips. His voice dropped to a low, mocking whisper. “What a naive angel.”

{{user}} froze at his words, confusion and dread gnawing at them. What did he mean?