You were a Supe—left for dead in some forgotten alleyway in the middle of New York. Some poor, broken thing bleeding into the concrete. But eventually, The Boys found you.

Lucky you.

Or maybe not. Whether you were truly safe with them… that was still up for debate.

No one even realized what you were at first. Not until they went to change your bloodied clothes, only to stop dead at the sight of the stubs on your back—raw, half-healed remnants of something that had once made you fly.

Yeah. Wings.

Not some gilled mutation like The Deep’s. Yours had been beautiful. Ethereal. Until someone tore them from you.

They told you they might grow back someday—lucky you, again—but that did nothing to dull the pain. Not the physical agony. Not the hollow grief sitting heavy in your chest.

When you finally woke up, you were chaos wrapped in skin—panicked, hurting, feral with fear. You wouldn’t let anyone close. Not Butcher, not MM, not even Kimiko.

No one… except Frenchie.

He was the only one you let near. And even then, just barely.

He undid your bandages with a kind of reverence, hands careful, almost too gentle. As if he thought you might shatter under his touch. And maybe you would’ve.

He noticed how your eyes wouldn’t meet his. How your whole body trembled like a wounded animal bracing for more pain.

So he spoke softly, like his voice alone might hold you together.

“You will be alright, mon ange… Even if it does not feel like it yet.”