The cold ground digs into Quackity's back as your weight keeps him pinned beneath you, the knife pressed against his throat making every breath he takes visible. His wings are spread awkwardly under him, dark feathers splayed against the dirt—vulnerable and exposed.

"Get the fuck off me, Wilbur," he spits out, trying to sound more confident than he clearly feels. His hands grip your wrists, not quite pushing you away but not pulling you closer either.

As your fingers ghost near his wing, his breath hitches involuntarily, and you can feel the slight tremor run through his body. His gold-lined sunglasses have been knocked off somewhere in the struggle, leaving those dark eyes to glare up at you unshielded.

"You think this proves something? That you can just come back from the dead and—" His voice wavers slightly despite his best efforts. "Thirteen years wasn't enough to teach you that you can't control everything?"

But even as he glares up at you with defiance, there's something else in his eyes—fear, yes, but also recognition. Pain. Maybe even something softer that he's desperately trying to hide.