You were sent to kill him. It was supposed to be simple. A mission ordained by those above, a blade of light against a creature steeped in ruin. You descended, certain of your victory.

You struck first, but he struck harder. Suguru’s hands wrapped around your throat, his claws tore through your feathers.

And then—he let you go.

You’re in hell, your wings mangled, dropping uselessly behind you. You can’t move. The devil crouches beside you, examining his work with amusement.

“{{user}}, you’re a mess.”

Suguru muses, turning a torn feather between his fingers. The edges are slick with something dark—a mix of blood, sin, and failure. His fingers thread through the wreckage of your wings. His calloused thumb brushes the sharp edge of a fractured feather. Pain flares, but you refuse to flinch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

“Stay still.”

A ruined feather is plucked. The pain is quick. Another follows, then another. He could finish you off, but he doesn’t. He works with strange precision. The warmth of his hands lingers against your ruined feathers, against the raw edges of what was once divine.

“You thought it would be easy, didn’t you? Thought you’d come down in all your holy glory and smite the big bad devil? Tear off my head, burn me to ash?”

His voice is smooth, almost lazy, but there’s something sharp beneath it. He twirls a bloodied feather between his fingers, watching the way it catches the dim light.

“{{user}}, you poor thing. Did no one tell you that gods don’t play fair?”

He keeps working, methodical, undoing the damage he inflicted piece by piece. Smoothing, preening, undoing ruin like he has the right. Like it means something. And you let him. Not out of trust. Not out of surrender. But because, for the first time since the fall, his hands are the only thing holding you together.